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William MacMillan 






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NORTHLAND 

STORIES 


TALES OF TRAPPING LIFE IN THE 
CANADIAN WILDERNESS 


By WILLIAM MacMILLAN 

M 


Published by 

THE PELTRIES PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC. 
370 Seventh Avenue, New York 




Q 

CONTENTS 


Nekik, the Wandering Otter 3 

The Devil Bird 10 

Trackless Trails 22 

MacCrae of St. Felician . . 31 

The Midnight Waterloo 46 

Yellow Coat 53 

Call of the Wild Answered 62 

The Crown Sables 68 

A Tragedy of the North 79 


*' 

>1 

Copyright 1922 by 

THE PELTRIES PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC. 

NOV 1 1 1922 

~ ~ ~ « 

1KANSFER8E0 FRO# 

OOPYHiQHT OFFiCfe 
MAY 25 im 





A LL through the long dreary day Nekik, the otter, 
couched in the shelter of his temporary stump- 
home, cunningly concealed under the spreading 
arms of a great pine. These branches kept his shelter 
from being buried under the clouds of snow that were 
being whirled and drifted across the face of the land. 
The crystallized moisture was the kind that froze into 
ice as soon as it fell. The great ashes and pines rocked 
and creaked in their stiff jackets of ice and groaned 
under the burden of heavy snow. Sweeping over the 
lately fallen snow the cold solidified into a smooth 
intense hardness that reflected the shadows of every 
bush, every tree and every queer shaped stump. 

Nekik knew that the same storm that was holding 
him back, was preventing his foes from venturing from 
their hidden lairs, and dozed at the very mouth of his 
den with unwonted security. With the coming of 
darkness the storm, as is so often the case in the north- 
ern country, died gradually away into nothing and the 
cold deepened in fearful bitterness. The storm-cast 


/ 


4 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


skies of the day gave way to a marvelously vivid dis- 
play of northern lights. The wilderness became a blaze 
of startling points of light that tore across the sky and 
came together with a soundless crash. The world had 
changed on the instant from a place of storm and 
moaning trees to a place of fairy wonderland, a forest 
of shining silver as amazing as it was beautiful. 

Into this world of beautiful silence crept Nekik from 
his place of protection, and despite the lightness of his 
approach, the brittle twigs creaked about him. It 
seemed as if his very breath had its effect on them. 
The disconcerting noises made him incautiously place 
his feet on an insecure place; for a frantic second he 
struggled to maintain his equilibrium, then slipped and 
sprawled his length on the ice-coated surface. With 
the cunning of his kind, he lay motionless as he fell, his 
twitching ears straining for signs of danger. None 
came, however, and in a few minutes he was safe in 
the shadows of the trees. With preconceived deliberate- 
ness he headed for a large open patch that in summer 
marked a dangerous morass, but now the iron hand of 
winter held impotent its dangers in ice-manacled fin- 
gers that relaxed not their hold. Suddenly the long, 
black body was petrified into the semblance of a stump ; 
his wonderfully acute senses had warned him of a 
movement ahead; that it was not an enemy he appar- 
ently seemed sure. Not for long did he remain thus ; 
one minute he was a stump, the next the stump had 
vanished and no movement marked his going. The 
blackness of the undisturbed night thickened, and the 
cold increased to a stinging intensity, and except for 
the ghostly swish of a passing owl on murder bent, the 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


5 


world was steeped in silence. Then things began to 
happen. * 

The snowy white form of a scared rabbit sailed 
through the air and landed with a jarring thud on the 
frozen snow. Barely had he touched when he was off 
to the accompaniment of a shower of tinkling icicles 
that swept down the little slope like a miniature ava- 
lanche. The dark form of Nekik followed at a ridicu- 
lously slow pace. Never in the world would he over- 
take the panic-stricken rabbit at that rate. But could 
the otter s face be analyzed, no trace of worry or doubt 
would be found there, for he knew his quarry and 
could discount every move he would make. Even so, 
we must not get tlTe idea that he was slow. Anything 
but that. His short, stubby legs carried him over the 
hard snow in awkward jerks that were most deceiving, 
and soon he, too, vanished in the shadows of the forest. 

Once again a pall of silence enveloped the wilder- 
ness, while not far away Nekik was contentedly gnaw- 
ing the bones of the late rabbit. Slowly Nekik retraced 
his steps to the little stream that now lay buried many 
feet under the snow and ice. Pausing for a moment 
on the top of the bank he searched the inky darkness 
for hidden dangers. Satisfied that nothing menaced 
his safety, he squatted on his haunches and slid down 
the well-worn incline and dropped down a great crack 
in the ice out of sight. For many minutes afterward 
the air was full of the ringing clatter of thousands of 
tiny icicles that rattled after the vanished otter. The 
sounds carried far over the endless reaches of the 
great forest and came to the sharp ears of a skulking 
wolf on the trail of some luckless victim. The sounds 


6 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


seemed more inviting to him than the trail he was fol- 
lowing and he swung around in that direction. A past 
master in the art, he soon picked up Nekik’s trail, but 
when a half hour later he peered cautiously over the 
rim of the cliff, an unresponsive stillness caused him 
to give a snarl of disgust that was most pleasing to 
many a little hidden listener. Meanwhile, what of 
Nekik? 

With an entire abandon of his former caution, Nekik 
slipped clumsily along the hard bottom, crossed once, 
and at length reached the real home of his people. In 
the queer unnatural light that filtered through the thick 
ceiling of ice, den after den could be seen where they 
had been cleverly dug above the water level in the bank. 
Dark forms of other otters flitted here and there along 
the many runways. Suddenly, as if by some tacit 
agreement, Nekik and two others detached themselves 
from the group, darted through a hole in the ice and 
emerged in the pale grey light of a dawning day. This 
was not the same hole that had let our friend into the 
stream, but another one farther up the winding course 
of the stream. A well-beaten trail led up the rather 
steap bank. Following this trail with a strange gait, 
half run, half hop and a jump, they reached the top, 
and with their big heavy tails dragging clumsily behind 
them, they melted into the shadows. 

Unlike most other trails of the wild folk, this one 
curved and swung in acres designed in order to follow 
the line of least resistance and to avoid stumps and 
windfalls that lay thick in their path. The finish of 
this wide, curving trail was the top of the bank lately 
vacated by Nekik, and here the hard, crusty snow was 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


7 


beaten down by the weight of many bodies. Each 
otter, as he came to the lip of the bank, settled himself 
firmly on the base of his tail, gave a little screeching 
whistle and whirled down the incline with great speed. 
Again and again the boisterous creatures repeated their 
childish performance, and they weren’t all young otters, 
'either. 

It came Nekik’s turn. He was settling himself com- 
fortably for the descent when the awful sound of a 
great wing swish cut through the grunts of the up- 
bank climbing otters. A huge black shadow of fearful 
proportions dropped like a plummet from the sky, and 
in an instant the terrified Nekik was hidden from sight 
under great flapping wings that sought to batter him to 
pieces, while claws of fearful strength and sharpness 
searched for a definite hold, and failing that to tear into 
ribbons the very heart of its victim. The strength of the 
gigantic eagle was stupenduous and Nekik felt himself 
partially lifted off his feet. Up to now, paralyzed with 
fear of the unknown, he had remained silent, but 
recovering his shattered wits to some extent, he snarled 
and growled with some show of defiance, but the eagle 
was silent. The cruel claws bore into his very vitals, 
and only his heavy and ill-balanced weight saved him 
from being lifted bodily into the air. Once off the snow 
he well knew that he would be at the mercy of the 
murderer, who would carry him to a great height and 
then dash him to pieces on the earth below, whence he 
would follow to devour his prey at leisure. 

Desperation gave him strength. A lucky shove of 
his powerful tail and somehow he managed to secure 
a precarious hold in the fluffy feathers under one flap- 


8 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


ping wing. Heedless of the death-dealing blows in his 
head and back, he dug his claws in the breast of the 
bird and mouthed for a vital hold in the only weak 
part of the eagle’s great armour. Now it was the 
aggressor’s turn to attempt escape, and with a hoarse 
cry the eagle strove to break away from the terrible 
teeth of its antagonist. But the hold of Nekik was un- 
breakable, and now to its dismay the eagle found, 
despite his size and the suddenness of his attack, he 
was at a sore disadvantage. The bird’s panic increased 
as it felt the pain of those ripping, tearing teeth search- 
ing for a fatal hold. Except for the deep nose breath- 
ing of the otter and the whistling breath of the bird, 
the battle was fought in silence. While Nekik’s com- 
panions had sped to safety at the first sign of danger, 
still they were close enough to hear now and then the 
rasp of ripping claws as the otter sought to get a firm 
hold on the hard crust, and the crash and flap of the 
tremendous wings as tiny whirred in great circles 
against the ice-hung trees. 

Far away to the northward a wandering fisher, the 
outlaw of the woods, caught the sound of the combat 
as it was carried to his ears on the wings of the night 
breezes, and he carefully scented his way toward the 
sound with the hope of an easily earned meal. But 
for some reason or other, when he did catch a glimpse 
of the crimson battle-ground, he displayed good judg- 
ment in not interfering, for unbeknown to him, on a 
branch above his head, crouched a big lynx. Drawn 
to the scene by the same anticipations, he would wish 
little interference from another party. With burning 
eyes of living fire the savage lynx bided his time for 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


9 


an opportunity at the proper moment to pounce on the 
winner. In dire straits though He was, the eagle, 
through his lidless eyes, caught the glitter of the baleful 
eyes on the tree, and with added terror, he beat his wings 
and clawed with his spurs, but the teeth of Nekik 
were doing deadly work and the monarch of the air 
was becoming weaker and Weaker. At last, with a con- 
vulsive heave, Nekik sank his teeth into the very heart 
of the eagle. With a great shuddering and fluttering of 
wing the bird crumpled in the snow and after a few 
twiches lay still. Jaws dripping and mouth open, the 
weary Nekik dragged himself from under the body of 
his antagonist. With thumping heart and exhausted 
nigh unto death he spread his short legs far apart and 
stared stupidly at the mass of feathers. 

Now was the fisher’s opportunity ; likewise the lynx’s 
turn. But strange to say, no brown form slipped out 
to attack ; no grey thunderbolt shot from the tree. The 
wild folk must surely love a winner, for the fisher 
turned slowly away from an easy meal, while the 
bloodthirsty cat clawed his way down from the tree 
and sped to other places on his big, silent pads. 

With great gashes in his chest and back, Nekik 
turned to the top of the slide, and with a weary flip of 
his tail tumbled down and out of sight. 


THE DEVIL BIRD 

I T was Father Pouliot’s annual trip. Through many 
a mile of fly-infested, pine scented timberland he 
had trudged to call upon the tiny Eskimo village 
that lay on the very outskirts of his thousand-mile 
parish. It perched itself uncertainly on the extreme 
edge of a rocky precipice, whose foot was laved by the 
restless Arctic Sea. Here some thirty or more little 
unkempt huts housed as savage and unbroken a tribe 
of Eskimos as ever hunted bear or tossed a spear. 

The big-hearted man of God went among them and 
the brown people respected him in their own placid, 
grudging fashion. 

The priest hurried, for soon the hard, cruel hand of 
the north would bind and crush the world in manacles 
of steel, and he had other work to do. True to the 
spirit of their kind, the people of the village watched 
the coming of the priest with an apparent lack of 
interest. 

With kindly beaming face, the good man loosened 
the straps of his pack as he drew near. Suddenly there 
was a flash of golden curls and a tiny little white girl 
of some three or four years> darted from the chief’s 
door and with squeals of delight and mock fear dis- 
appeared into the nearest hut. An instant later the 
priest was startled to see a fearful figure come bounc- 
ing in her wake. A great massive shape it was, on all 
fours, while upon its back and head was the skin of 
a great blue wolf. To emphasize its frightful aspect, 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


ii 


pieces of bright red flannel had been thrust 'into the 
eye sockets of the skin. 

With awkward jumps this amazing apparition sought 
to follow the flying girl, but by this time the holy man 
stood in its way, whereupon the thing stood upon its 
hind feet, disclosing to the father’s astonished gaze the 
red and perspiring face of Ka-Yaka, the old chief. 
Very sheepishly the old man dropped the wolf skin 
from his shoulders and signed to the other to enter 
his hut. 

“You have a little white girl,” came from the priest, 
and he drew from the lips of the Eskimo the halting 
story of how in the early spring a mighty storm broke 
over the world and on the next day there drifted to 
the foot of their cliffs a small ship’s boat with the 
bodies of a sailor and a little girl. The man was dead, 
but under the tender ministrations of the women the 
little girl was coaxed back to life and here she was, 
adopted into the chief’s own home. Judging from 
what he had just seen, there seemed but little doubt 
that the child was happy. Even as they spoke there 
was a rush in the door and the golden-haired child was 
in the chief’s waiting arms. 

* * * * 

The years slipped by even in that far-off portion of 
the world and the Eskimo village changed as little in 
outward respects as did the boundless, restless sea 
that lapped its gigantic cliffs. But on the brown men 
and women time, of course, had laid its inexorable 
hand. True, Chief Ka-Yaka still held autocratic sway 
over the lives and destinies of his people, but he was 
of many years and the murmurings from his young 


12 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


men warned him that the autumn of his life was upon 
him. 

The young men had grown up, taken wives who 
were once the little brown girls that played about in 
the streets, and they lived now with their children in 
the village. South Wind was one, however, who had 
not yet pleased to choose her mate. Like her name, 
she meant everything that was gentle and pleasing. 
The cruel winds of the north and the treacherous winds 
of the west all brought cruel, biting cold, but the south 
wind, like the little storm and spray-lashed waif who 
now bore its name, brought in its train the gentle 
things of life. 

Short summer had come to the north and the world 
was bright and sunny as only, an Arctic summer can 
make it. Clad in the long jacket and short skirt of 
smoked caribou, affected by the maidens of the village, 
South Wind had bound into the strands of her golden 
hair wisps of trade flannel of brilliant hue. Sitting on 
the edge of a flat rock she idly swung her long grace- 
ful limbs in the free abandon of youth. At her side 
stood Kadack, the beau of the village. He was tall and 
graceful, and even the boxy cut of the garments of his 
people failed to hide the powerful lines of his figure. 

“Come, South Wind, you shall be the ruler of my 
people. You shall command and all the others shall 
obey. Ka-Yaka, my father, must soon be upon his 
journey, and it is the desire that I, Kadack, rule in his 
place.” 

This was spoken slowly and awkwardly, after the 
manner of his people. 

That Kadack was justified in feeling a bit uncertain 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


13 


of the object of his affections was apparent the next 
minute. 

“You are a big talker, Kadack, but I don’t want a 
hunter for my man. I want one who can talk like 
Father Pouliot, has a watch and lives in a house with 
an upstairs to it.” 

“Bah, that old priest fills your pretty head with too 
much nonsense.” 

South Wind tossed her golden head, slipped from 
the rock and left the exasperated young fellow alone 
with his throbbing heart and whirling head. 

* * * * 

The great war had come to a close, the mighty 
armies of the new world were streaming back to their 
everyday life. In that army were many bright, clean- 
cut young men who bore on the left breast the golden 
wings of the air service. Having tasted of swift death 
amidst the whirling skies of Europe, they returned 
unsatiated and unsatisfied, yearning in their young 
hearts for more excitement. 

Yearnings and dreams crystallized into action, so 
that in a very few months there found their way into 
the offices of many public men certain bulky envelopes 
which proved to be the nucleus of an idea that none 
but an airman would have dreamed of, namely, the 
organizing of a seaplane expedition to the wilds of far- 
off Labrador Ungava for the purpose of bringing to 
the use of man untold wealth of fur and mineral that 
lay in the rocks and forests of that little known wilder- 
ness. 

Some of these harried business men tossed the typed 
pages into the waste basket with a laugh, while others, 


14 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


knowing perhaps of the valuable data carefully pigeon- 
holed in the Nation’s archives of what early explorers 
had found, lent their weight to the project. 

* * * * 

Kicking the rock in a most unchieflike manner, the 
disappointed Kadack leaned on his elbows and looked 
towards the sea. With the uncon ciously trained sight 
of his people, the young fellow glimpsed in the hazy 
distance a flock of frightened sea gulls. That in itself 
meant little, for sea gulls are stupid birds at best. 
Even the slap of a wave would disturb their peace. 
He interestedly watched their panic grow as with wild 
whistles of consternation they wheeled and swooped 
above the long swells of the heaving sea. An odd 
sound smote his ear and out of the sweeping clouds 
soared a roaring bird of monstrous size. Straight in 
from the sea it flew and with incredible swiftness 
swooped over the little village, roaring all the while 
with a noise that drew every Eskimo from his hut. 

Impressed with the frightful realness of the terrible 
thing, Kadack dug his nails into the rock and with 
beating heart followed the flight of this flaming Devil 
Bird. It seemed as if the creature had the ominous 
intent of sweeping down on the trembling villagee. As 
the deafening roar increased in volume, the amazed 
Eskimo caught sight of a tiny man on the back of the 
bird. Suddenly the roaring ceased and the great bird, 
pointing its nose to the ground, dived to earth behind 
the nearby cliffs. 

Instantly the village was in a turmoil. With dis- 
mayed cries the women marshalled the children into 
the questionable shelter of the huts, while the hunters 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


15 


drew their spears and looked towards the old chief, 
who for the moment seemed- undecided. At length, 
apparently coming to a decision, the old fellow shook 
his tousled locks and led his silent hunters over the 
rocks in the direction where this new and fearful bird 
had taken to earth. They slipped noiselessly and with 
cunning from shelter to shelter. 

Having shut off his engine, Sturgess, the van of the 
invading seaplanes, gritted his teeth and pancaked to 
an uncertain landing on the rocky floor of the gully. 
Barely had he climbed stiffly from his seat when a 
mass of husky brown figures appeared from nowhere 
and closed silently around him, each uplifted hand 
holding a wicked looking spear. In great astonish- 
ment Sturgess mechanically raised his hands above his 
head, whereupon a bandy-legged little Eskimo promptly 
pressed his spear point against the air belt that the 
airman wore around his waist. At the loud report 
every man dropped in his tracks like a shot. The Irish 
in Sturgess burst to the surface and he gave way to a 
hearty laugh. Amusement is the same in every tongue, 
and a laugh, particularly an Irish one, can be under- 
stood in all the languages of the earth except the 
Eskimo one. The hunters regained their feet and their 
composure and proceeded very gingerly to tie Sturgess’ 
hands behind his back, taking great pains at the same 
time to stear clear of the great bird that stood so inno- 
cently nearby. Without a word of explanation the 
airman was led back to the village and quietly pushed 
into the darkness of a hut near the chief’s, while two 
uncompromising looking hunters took up their posi- 
tions at the only outlet. 


i6 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


Swiftly the news swept through the village that the 
evil man who had come in from the sea on the Devil 
Bird had been captured by the hunters and was now 
in the chief s dog hut. Stolid women and fat, pudgy 
children crowded near to catch a glimpse of the cap- 
tive, but the guards, swelled with their own importance, 
scowled forbiddingly at them. Though the luckless 
Sturgess did not know it, a cordon was thrown around 
the machine, the men taking care not to venture too 
near. 

With urgent haste the councilmen were called to- 
gether to parley on this great and evil thing that had 
come into their lives. Some were for casting the 
stranger from the cliffs. Others were for tying him 
to the back of his flaming Devil Bird and bidding him 
go the way he came. But others counseled more 
wisely. 

“He looks to be of the good priest’s people. Let us 
wait till he comes and he will advise us.” 

In the end this advice prevailed, though there was a 
great outcry when it came to the ears of the hotter 
spirits among the young hunters. 

Days rolled into weeks, which in turn measured 
themselves into months, and still the airman remained 
in the darkness of his dog house prison. 

One day Sturgess was allowed to wander in the 
little clearing around the hut within sight of his guards, 
and thus, South Wind, passing by, saw the lonely pris- 
oner as he looked with wistful eyes towards the sea. 

The white girl felt unconsciously drawn towards 
him and soon she contrived to wander close enough 
to speak. To t^ll how those visits grew in length and 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


1 7 


frequency would fill pages. Suffice it to say that before 
long South Wind lay on her soft couch of skins at 
night and dreamed of the handsome, white-faced 
stranger. The meager teachings of the good priest 
stood her in good stead, for this man spoke the same 
tongue and not any more fluently than she. As for 
Sturgess, cast in a strange land, among 1 strange people, 
this white girl, who used his own tongue, was as one 
of his own people. He came to watch for the visits 
of the beautiful village girl with a desperation that was 
true to his ardent Irish nature. 

One day Sturgess found his liberty shut off and he 
was roughly thrown again into the blackness of the 
dog house, and not until a week later did he learn from 
the lips of South Wind the reason for it. Familiarity 
breeding contempt of the great bird, silent now for so 
long, the children began to play around it, and one, 
more bold than the others, climbed into the hole in the 
creature’s back. The various sticks and levers ap- 
pealed to the simple mind of the boy and he pulled 
some of them. There was a burst of flame and an 
awful roar. Terror stricken, the youngsters tumbled 
pell-mell to the village. With quaking hearts the hunt- 
ers hid in the bushes and watched the evil thing gradu- 
ally grow less defiant and finally roar itself into silence. 
They returned to throw the instigator of it all back into 
his prison, for it seemed to them that there must be 
a diabolical connection between the' two. 

The incident reassured the aviator, for he had feared 
that the long weeks of idleness in the rain and weather 
might have seriously rusted the engines. He was 
relieved that it would turn, and unless some super- 


18 NORTHLAND STORIES 

stitious hunter was impulsive enough to pierce the gas 
tank, Sturgess figured that he had plenty of gasoline. 

In the fullness of time Father Pouliot dropped his 
pack from his broad, aching shoulders and plunged 
immediately in the lives and troubles of his simple 
flock. All through the day he argued with the obsti- 
nate old chief till the word went around that at the 
break of the following day every man and woman was 
to meet at the council rock to try the Devil Man. South 
Wind heard the summons and her heart sank. 

Long before the ghostly dawn broke every man, 
woman and child in the village was squatting in a circle 
around the flat-topped council rock. On a great white 
bear skin, spread over the surface, sat old Ka-Yaka. 
Among the old men at the foot was good Father Pou- 
liot, and South Wind was not at all reassured by the 
anxious look on the seamed old face. Such a silence 
hung over the crowd that the whistling sea gulls swept 
almost over their heads. At length, when the slowly 
breaking day allowed him to distinguish the features 
of those who sat at the council rock, the old chief rose 
slowly and impressively to his feet. There was an 
expectant craning of necks. 

“My children, we are come together for the pur- 
pose of finding out something about this great thing 
that has come to us. Is it for evil or good? We can- 
not think that it is for good, else the Devil Man would 
have brought gifts of bright things, and we surely 
think his coming bodes evil, because of the monstrous 
thing that bore him straight from the sea.” 

The old man’s voice wavered for a moment and then 
went on: 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


19 


“We all know that no living things are in that direc- 
tion of the sea from whence he came, only the souls 
of the dead. Counsels our friend the White Father,” 
here the chief glanced down at the priest, “to set the 
evil man free? Others may come from the same place 
and utterly destroy pur village. Bring on the Devil 
Man that all may see for themselves that he is of the 
devil.” 

The crowd parted to admit the entrance of the guard 
with the hapless airman. In the bulky suit in which 
he had been captured, Sturgess looked a veritable giant 
of a man, and the angry looks that he cast around him 
made the old men shake their greasy heads in approval 
of the chief’s words. Glancing over the heads of the 
Eskimos, the American caught sight of the tearful face 
of South Wind and he smiled. A young hunter from 
the rear of the circle rose to his feet and in a deep 
voice called on the chief: 

’“Have done with this trial,” he cried, suggesting that 
Sturgess be fastened to the back of his wicked bird 
and that both be thrown into the sea. 

A murmur of approval greeted this, but a wrinkled 
old man from the base of the rock got to his feet and 
rumbled : 

“Our friend, the priest, what has he to say?” 

The father rose slowly to his feet and spoke in the 
Gulf of Noises’ tongue: 

“You are my people and I love you as only a father 
can love the children of his heart. What I advise you 
to do is for your own good and for the good of the 
little children at your knees. This man you have bound 
like an enemy is no Devil Man, nor is the thing yonder 


20 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


anything to fear. This man’s council circle has sent 
him to trade with your people, and because he comes 
on the back of a ship that sails not only on the sea, but 
also in the air, you fear he is of evil intentions. No, 
my people, this is a good man and I would strongly 
counsel that you let him go free. He will return to 
his own country and soon, there will come to our 
village great warm blankets that will keep our little 
ones warm, knives and mirrors that show our faces, 
and we shall barter to the white men our skins and oil. 
If we harm him, others will take his place, and I say 
their coming will never end. They are as the young 
seal in numbers and they shall utterly destroy our 
homes.” 

As he finished speaking, the tall, powerful figure of 
Kadack shouldered his way through the throng and 
stood belligerently before the chief. 

“Father, let this man die. If he is good, his spirit 
will be happy in the hunting grounds of the white man. 
Since he is evil, command Kadack to spit his heart on 
the end of his spear or else let me toss him from the 
cliff.” 

Not waiting for the chief’s assent, the young warrior 
swung toward the prisoner with spear raised over his 
head. There was a moment’s silence, and then with 
wild shouts the young hunters crowded around the 
white man. South Wind offered breathless prayers to 
Father Pouliot’s God. Before the suspense broke, 
there was a cry from a woman, “The sea, the sea, look 
to the sea.” 

Sweeping from the scudding clouds of the early 
morning came a score of the same terrible birds that 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


21 


had borne the prisoner to the northland. As the mon- 
strous creatures drew near their fearful roarings beat 
the brown people into panic stricken silence. With 
mathematical precision the giant birds circled over their 
heads, and an instant later settled down in a circle 
around the council rock. With tense faces the brown 
people watched a group of muffled figures scramble 
from the backs of their chargers and advance towards 
them, each man armed with an iron weapon such as 
they had taken from the prisoner. Kadack looked on 
for a moment, and then with a loud whoop he raised 
his spear and pointed it towards the breast of the bound 
man. Before he had time to complete his aim, flames 
burst forth from a dozen revolvers. Kadack stood for 
a moment, a queer, dazed look on his face, then he 
spun around and dropped to the ground. Quickly the 
stern-faced strangers closed in around the group and 
disarmed the hunters, while one cut the thongs that 
bound Sturgess. At the same moment South Wind 
found her way to his side, and to the amazement of his 
newly arrived friends, Sturgess took the fair-haired 
Eskimo girl in his arms. A few excited explanations 
and Sturgess and South Wind, followed by Father 
Pouliot, led the party to the village. 

It was a few days later that Sturgess and South 
Wind, now his bride, accompanied by the squadron of 
airmen, began the homeward journey. After fasten- 
ing the happy South Wind securely in the tiny seat in 
the rear, Sturgess had snapped over a lever, there was 
a roar and a purr as the Devil Bird shot up into the 
blue skies to join its friends, and together they turned 
southward towards the new world. 


TRACKLESS TRAILS 

T HE black, fluffy clouds scurried quickly across the 
heavens. Forest, lakes and stream lay still in 
silent blackness. Suddenly, with a flash of light, 
the autumn moon burst from its mask of driving cloud 
and shone out with a clear, cold brilliance. It picked 
out with amazing distinctness the whole great forest, 
every bush, every tree and every twig. It clothed the 
ravines and hollows with a deep, impressive shadow, 
and it flashed and shone on the bark of the silver 
birches with crystal shafts of living fire. 

The myriad points of light passed on, and deep in 
the dense blackness of the Great Hills softly rested on 
the quiet waters of a calm, glassy lake. Its sparkling 
surface gave back the clear rays- as from a mirror. A 
shadow cut the beam of light and there was outlined 
for an instant every curve of a great screech owl as he 
lumbered clumsily through the air on some sinister 
hunt. He passed and only the faint swish of his wide- 
spread wings marked his going. The blackness of the 
forest swallowed him and hid the story of his preying 
from the light. 

From that section of the low-lying bank that lay 
deepest in the shadow, an invisible body plunged from 
its lip and the clear waters were broken by a swiftly 
vanishing body. The little waves rippled and sparkled 
with scintillating light in ever widening circles' and 
again everything was as before. 

Far out toward the center a dainty little snout poked 
itself to the surface and turned in a curious half circle 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


23 


as it inquiringly sniffed the air. Suddenly, without 
even the suspicion of a ripple, the snout disappeared 
and almost immediately the silver flash of a spotted 
belly marked the lazy roll of a wandering gray back 
in the identical spot. 

Again the nose appeared upon the surface, this time 
many yards nearer the shore. In a thoroughly decided 
way the little black spot surged towards the bank, part- 
ing the waves in the manner peculiar to water animals. 
Reaching the shore, the nose lengthened into a short, 
fat body covered with thick brown fur, with a long, 
flat tail of odd construction. A great muskrat crawled 
up on the heavily tree-fringed bank, great showers of 
glittering diamonds falling from his glistening coat as 
he shook himself under the friendly glare of the un- 
blinking moon. Not for long did the little brown ani- 
mal work over his toilet with a marvelous furtiveness 
that marked every movement. The brown form melted 
into the surrounding shadow. The traveling clouds 
rushed across the heavens, broke, separated and came 
together again with a soundless crash over the blank 
face of the cold moon. 

Lake and forest blended into a mass of shadow and 
only the slight moaning in the treetops of that slowly 
gathering little breeze that precedes the breaking of the 
dawn broke upon the stillness. 

With premeditated purpose the muskrat slipped 
through the dense bracken, now under a fallen log, 
anon clawing along a moss-covered ancient of the for- 
est or breasting the waters of a rippling stream that 
gurgled and splashed from the rocky breast of the 
mountain. He had often traveled that road before 


24 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


and he knew every stone and twig that beset his path. 
Pausing for an instant at the stagnant evil-smelling 
water of- a sunken pond, he nipped the sweet root of a 
gorgeous lily that grew upon its banks. The one taste 
of his favorite food gave him a longing for more and 
he plunged into the dead water and quickly brought to 
their death a score or more of the beautiful flowers. 
The tasty root of the water lily is ever the piece de 
resistance of a muskrat’s existence. Much as he rel- 
ished his meal, he scurried quickly on his way. At last 
he came to his objective. Following the tortuous course 
of a tumbling stream, it brought him to a small lake. 
Smaller and shallower than the other one, it was sur- 
rounded on all sides by a vast morass that almost over- 
lept the low, muddy banks. A great quantity of slimy 
branches, from which hung and fluttered masses of 
rotten week, floated on the surface. 

The black water looked thick and sluggish, and most 
uninviting. The muskrat slipped through the foul 
marsh and crawled up the bald face of a round grey 
rock that stood sentinel-like at the dividing line be- 
tween lake and swamp. Settling his feet for a dive, he 
was preparing himself for the spring, when in some 
strange manner one foot shipped on the hard, smooth 
surface and his usual well-time, perfect leap was 
spoiled. He landed on his side with a splash that 
echoed and reechoed through the silence like a clap of 
thunder. 

Far up the inlet of the lake a large fisher lifted his 
head at the sound, and thinking discretion the better 
part of valor, disappeared into the shadows at his feet\ 
Way back in the black depths of the forest the sharp 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


25 


ears of a dainty weasel twitched as the sound faintly 
drummed against his sensitive ears. The sound was 
not repeated and he bent down to his partridge meal. 

Quickly righting himself, the muskrat went down, 
down until he swiftly slipped to the inviting maw of 
his wonderfully constructed winter home. Quickly 
he reached the elevated floor, where he was affec- 
tionately greeted by his family. The little home was a 
marvel in architecture. Safe from the heaving and 
shifting of the winter ice, the under-water entrance 
was also a safe exit in time of danger. Free above the 
water line, the floor of the store and living room was 
as snug and dry as a bone. The dome-shaped roof was 
thick and strong and defined the most persistent 
attempts of their fiercest enemies. 

As the new day broke over the lake there was a 
stillness as of death. The little folk were at rest. The 
first cold wind of the night brought the muskrat out on 
his daily or rather nightly hunt. Making his way 
across the lake, he rummaged contentedly around the 
damp, slimy weeds. Splashing carelessly through glis- 
tening pools and nosing inquiringly under partly sub- 
merged roots and trees, he was thoroughly at home in 
this hunting ground and he enjoyed it to the full. 
Many hours later, gorged to the eyes, he made his way 
to the widening pools that marked the beginning of the 
lake, making perhaps a little more noise than he should. 
He surveyed the quiet waters from the inadequate pro- 
tection of a stranded log. Nothing moved along its 
mirrored surface and danger seemed very far away. 
He plunged gracefully to the bottom. Barely had he 
swam a few yards in the cool depths when a long, 


26 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


black sinister shape darted at him with open mouth, 
too paralyzed with fear to move. Fortunately the otter 
misjudged his thrust, and the muskrat came too, and 
tore frantically to the shelter of a sunken tree. The 
terrible shape of the otter darted here and there in 
vain search, stirring the muddy bottom with powerful 
claws. He then shot away in a swirl of silver foam. 
For a long time the frightened muskrat clung to his 
shelter. Pressed against its slimy sides, he hardly 
dared to breathe. 

The moon was high in the heavens when he plucked 
up courage enough to come to the surface, very cau- 
tiously, and peered through the darkness. Suddenly 
from down the lake came the rubbery crack of a tail 
hitting the water. Crack, crack, the danger signals 
answered from all sides. A big red rat munching a 
floating root paused for a moment, then pounded the 
water with a terrific splash as he dived out of sight. A 
dainty little brown fellow slipping along the mouth of 
a little feeding stream caught the signal that meant but 
one thing. He, too, answered with a saucy flip of his 
horny tail, but he, too, disappeared. In fact, every rat 
that caught the signal disappeared from sight in a 
splash of foam. Even a great beaver nosing along the 
sluggish outlet mechanically boomed his reply with a 
flap of his flail-like tail. 

Minutes passed. By and by inquisitive little brown 
snouts cut the water in an uncertain way, gaining cour- 
age, however, with the apparent absence of all danger. 
Suddenly there was a rush of water, a struggle and a 
little screech rent the air, as a poor little fellow was 
dragged to his death by an unseen enemy. It marked 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


27 


but a single instant in the eternal life and death strug- 
gle constantly waged among the little wild folk of the 
North Woods. While no moving object disturbed the 
smoothness of the lake, masses of bubbles rising here 
and there marked the hurrying and scurrying of little 
bodies bent on reaching safety. 

Hours passed. A long, dark body drew itself from 
the water and stretched its shining length in the deep 
shadow of an overhanging alder. The long, slender 
body rippled in sinuous curves as he comfortably set- 
tled himself for a nap. A few twitches and soon the 
gentle rise and fall of the furry sides marked the 
dreamless sleep of the big otter. 

The muskrats dreaded few animals as they feared 
the otter. Wily and as swift as they are in the water, 
he levied a heavy toll upon the little people. All 
through the cold, short day the frightened rats kept to 
their burrows. Even those that had made their homes 
in the wet, soggy banks of the many little streams that 
flowed into the lake received the warning in some inex- 
plicable way and they, too, hugged the shelter of their 
comfortable homes. Thus it was that the otter found 
the hunting poor and unprofitable, and he soon betook 
himself to other hunting grounds. 

Here and there sharp snouts broke the surface in 
shadowy spots, only to disappear like a flash at some 
real or imagined danger. Our muskrat proved more 
venturesome than his brothers and he was the first to 
brave the dangers of the upper air. With a great 
splutter of breath, he came up under a sweeping branch 
of a big alder that spread its friendly limbs low over 
the water. It seemed for just such a purpose as this. 


28 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


His example was soon followed and the wonderful 
little animals resumed the daily excitement of their 
busy lives. At this season the storing of winter foo^ 
being in full swing, little time was wasted on other 
things. The low-lying shores and muddy pools were 
combed and forced to give up their good things. Our 
hero toiled mightily with the others, and did his shar 
in adding to the goodly pile on the floor of the snug 
storeroom in their subterranean home. 

The coming winter saw the thin ice gradually thicken 
and push its jagged edges towards the center until one 
bright, cold morning the way to the surface was 
blocked bv a clear crystal sheet of transparent ice. In- 
quiringly, the muskrat bumped his nose along the 
length and breadth of it in a vain effort to find an 
opening. Nature, however, had provided them against 
such an emergency as this and since they could not 
hunt upon the surface, they simply nosed along the 
bottom many feet below or else stopped at home and 
slept. 

According to the reckoning of both man and animal, 
such a terribly hard winter had seldom been seen. The 
winter’s stores sank rapidly and some of the families 
were sore beset. Just in time the warm rays of the 
March sun, after days of increasing strength, cracked 
the frozen bands of ice along the shores, and the 
muskrat spent many happy hours foraging along the 
many strange cracks and fissures that ran in a thou- 
sand directions. 

The new arrivals, and there were many, each house- 
hold boasting of from two to five, quickly learned to 
follow their elders along the many unchartered lanes 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


29 


of the muddy bottom. The sun, with tireless persist- 
ency, worked and dug its way into the very heart of 
the thick ice until by the middle of April the ceilings of 
their crystal prison rotted and sank beneath the sur- 
face, and the sturdy muskrats were free once more. 
Alas, danger and death stalked daily through their 
ranks in this bright spring season. The beaver and 
the otter, the marten and the owls, wise to the reck- 
lessness and inexperience of the younger rats, exacted 
a heart-breaking toll that wiped out many a happy 
little family. 

The inexorable law of the wild held sway and every 
living animal, from the giant moose to the tiny mole, 
came under its dominion. It is the rule of the north 
to take all and give little. The gaunt hand of death 
was forever stretched out to snatch the unwary. Not 
the least of the many dangers the little people had to 
face was the periodical visits of the trappers. These 
men went about their work in a knowing way, and 
only the exceedingly clever escaped the grim traps. 
The victims were numbered from among those who 
lived deep in the black depths of the lakes, as well as 
countless little fur-coated animals that trod the silent 
trails of the woods. That spring the hunters swept 
clear many a beaver hut, more than one otter home and 
scores of the rats. 

It so chanced one cold, stormy night that our musk- 
rat, wandering along the innocent-looking debris of 
the shore, trod ever so lightly on a small object. Bing! 
His right forefoot was fast in the hunter’s trap. In 
vain he tugged and strained, jumping here and there in 
a vain effort to free himself, but the cruel iron clung 


30 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


to him. All through the long night, through the bright 
hours of the day, he panted, screeched and struggled 
till at last, in a frenzy of despair, he gnawed the long 
dead foot with his chisel-like teeth, a last bite, a tug, 
and he limped free on three legs and a bleeding stump. 

Weeks came and went while he lay in the safe pro- 
tection of his underwater home, and not until the 
autumn sun turned the forest into all the gorgeous 
hues of the rainbow did he assay once more the danger 
of the silent trails. 



MacCRAE OF ST. FELICIAN 

A Story of Hudson Bay Post Life and the Grim 
Fate of a Murderer 

UTT isn’t wise, my friends, to judge too hastily. If 
JL Gros Louis has stolen the skin it must be found, 
but to condemn him just because he was the last 
seen near it is not enough. Talk it over amongst your- 
selves and Gros Louis here will help you find the dis- 
honest man,” and with friendly hands MacCrae, the 
Scotch factor at St. Felician, pushed the angry trap- 
pers from the room. 

“What’.s all the trouble about, MacCrae?” came from 
a slim young fellow perched on the edge of the red 
cloth-covered table. “Had the guy with the squint 
euchered the bunch?” 

With a distasteful look the factor dropped into a 
chair beside the other. 

“I love these people, Lambert; simple as children, 
their hearts are as big as the great forests they are 
born in. Truthful and religious to a fault, they lothe 
robbery. Lacroix, the fellow with the beard, missed 
a mooseskin robe last night and he seems to be positive 
that Gros Louis has taken it.” 

The old man grew silent and seemed lost in thought, 
while the young fellow wondered if the old Scotch- 
man ever grew lonely for his old people, the people 
that thought and talked as he did. 

There was a soft thud of moccasined feet and a 
young girl fairly flew down the steps and drew up 
before her father with a low bow. 


32 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


“Here I am, dad; is Mr. Lambert ready?” 

On his feet the minute the girl came in, the young 
fellow made an attempt to draw on an elegant coat of 
city fur. 

“Hold on a bit, my hoy; you’ll get that pretty thing 
all torn. Take this,” and the old man unhooked an 
old mackinaw from a peg and held it out. 

“Show Mr. Lambert all the sights, Kitty ; the chutes, 
the old stockades, the River a Pierre and Old John’s 
Camp ; we want our guest to know what a fine place we 
have here.” 

The girl laughed. 

“I warn Mr. Lambert before he starts that he will 
find his guide a fearfully prejudiced one, because I love 
this place,” and a moment later the door closed behind 
the laughing voices. 

Slipping quietly into the outer trading room, Mac- 
Crae busied himself with a huge pile of Hudson Bay 
blankets that an unspeaking Indian had mauled over 
for a couple of hours. His hands busy, he mused on 
the reasons for the young Frenchman’s visit. The 
blankets again in an orderly array, he drew from his 
pocket the letter the stranger had handed him. It bore 
the familiar crouching Indian of his own literature and 
it was signed by one of the vice-presidents of the very 
company that owned this post at St. Felician. 

“This will serve to introduce my friend, Adrien Lam- 
bert, who is traveling for his health. Please extend to 
him the courtesies of your charge,” then the familiar 
scrawling signature. 

Stray barterers came in and MacCrae was kept busy 
for the rest of the morning. 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


33 


The days that followed threw Lambert and Kitty 
MacCrae much together. Entirely shut off from inter- 
course with girls of her own kind, this tall, dark, hand- 
some Frenchman was opening up a new world to her, 
and her father, absorbed in the daily routine of the 
trade, failed to notice. 

The close of the first week of the young fellow’s 
stay marked the long expected home-coming of Sandy, 
Kitty’s brother, who had taken the month’s trade of 
furs down the river, and who was likely to arrive that 
day with a return load of provisions. 

To the girl the day dawned bright and lonely, for she 
loved Sandy with all the fire of an impetuous nature; 
but with Lambert things were otherwise, the past week 
had passed as a dream and he peevishly reckoned that 
the coming of her brother would divide her time with 
him. 

With great shouts and much cracking of whips the 
long expected team drew up at the post and every- 
body crowded around. From the window in the living 
room, Lambert caught a glimpse of a tall, blanketed 
figure pushing his way through the throng. Suddenly 
the door was banged open and Kitty MacCrae was in 
the arms of her brother. The old man greeted his son 
with less excitement, but no less affection. 

“Well, how did you make out, Sandy? But first 
shake hands with Mr. Lambert, who is here for a few 
days looking over the country.” 

Sandy advanced towards the other in his impulsive 
way and shot out his hand with a boyish laugh. 

“I heard from the Indians at Les Fourchettes that 
there was a stranger up this way.” 


34 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


Conversation soon drifted into the usual small talk 
till Sandy suddenly discovered that he had to help 
unload his toboggan and he dashed precipitately from 
the room. 

“Will he never grow up?” came from the girl affec- 
tionately. 

As if boosted by the bubbling spirits of young Mac- 
Crae, things at the post moved rapidly. Long tobog- 
gan excursions were made into the surrounding coun- 
try and exciting times were had visiting the three dif- 
ferent Indian encampments. Sandy, logically being 
the guide, Lambert and Kitty were again thrown to- 
gether, and, indeed, the entertaining was not all on the 
part of the two young MacCreas. Clever, good look- 
ing and particularly sophisticated, Lambert was a 
breath from the world of men, and Sandy, with big 
eyes, drank in the tales of city life that fell so glibly 
from the lips of the Frenchman, and Kitty, that golden- 
hearted girl, the pride of her manly brother and the 
light of her father’s life, was drawn by a powerful 
fascination towards him. 

Three weeks had passed since Lambert had handed 
the factor his letter and his “short visit” showed no 
signs of termination. Came again the time for the 
monthly visit to Lac Menikek, and one fine, bright 
morning Sandy MacCrae, with all the sparkling enthu- 
siasm of healthy youth, shouted a good-bye to tho$e 
in the door, cracked his long whip and tore out of 
sight on the down trail. 

The old factor plodded about his business while 
Kitty and their guest moved about at will. There was 
a morning that Lambert asked a team of dogs from 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


35 ' 


MacCrae “just to speed over to big John’s camp — that 
old Indian fascinates me.” 

Two days later MacCrae was leisurely going through 
his stock in the trade house when the door opened to 
admit an Indian. 

Without pausing in his work the factor greeted him : 
“How goes it, Gros Louis?” 

A grunt was the only reply. 

“Going to trade me that beaver skin?” 

The thrust and parry of Indian barter followed and 
the upshot of it was the wily Indian returned to his 
toboggan and staggered back laden down with great 
skins which he dropped on the floor. 

“Gros Louis want that gun,” and he gravely pointed 
to a long-barreled antiquated Mauser rifle of some by- 
gone day. 

As grave as the other, MacCrae stood the butt of the 
piece on the floor while the Indian slowly and carefully 
piled the beavers around it. They reached the odd 
breech, now they hid it from view, and soon the rear 
sight would be buried under the greasy pelts. 

“Whiskey in big John’s camp?” MacCrae started, 
then calmly, “Yes?” 

Gros Louis grunted, as he feared that he lacked pelts 
to reach the top, but only ten inches or so of the rusty 
barrel remained uncovered and he still had a respecta- 
ble pile of beavers at his feet. His face looked re- 
lieved. 

“Every Indian drunk ; white man, too. He crazy,” 
and calmly he reached out a grimy paw and lifted out 
his prize. 

With a whoop of delight he held the weapon aloft 


36 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


and darted to the door. Schooled in masking his 
feelings, the factor felt the anger flaming into his 
cheeks. Barely did the door close on the Indian than 
he was on his way to the dog house. Not many minutes 
later his team was racing over the trail towards big 
John’s camp on the Jacques Cartier. 

Well was MacCrae called “The Hurricane” by the 
Indians, for he burst upon the old Indian’s camp with 
all the fury of a storm. From the tattered teepee he 
yanked out the chief with little regard for his feelings 
and dumped the sodden rascal in the snow. 

“Where did you get that whiskey?” 

But the old villain was too far gone and looked at 
his questioner with a foolish grin on his unwashed 
face. From home to home the raging factor strode 
and each was but a replica of the first ; even the women 
were in the stupor that comes from vile, cheap whiskey. 

To his demand : “Where is the white man ?” they 
oogled at him and gave the same answer, which was 
silence. 

"Hot with anger at the scoundrel who had dared to 
smuggle in whiskey to the ignorant Indians, the factor 
caught the sound of quavery singing from a clump of 
trees to his right. Here he was amazed to see his 
guest astride a fallen tree, bareheaded and in stocking 
feet. He was hanging on with both hands and mouth- 
ing the words of a popular jazz song, “I don’t want to 
get up. I don’t want to get up.” 

For nigh twenty years MacCrae had sought to im- 
press, upon the Indians the fact that white men were 
not as they, that he was a man of wisdom and power, 
and here this drunken fool had shattered to pieces all 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


37 


the life teachings of the factor. MacCrae sensed the 
laugh that would go up from crawly teepees throughout 
the North when it became known that one of Mac- 
Crae’s whites from the post had gone crazy on Indian 
whiskey. Blind with anger he pulled the maudlin 
white from his perch and propelled him to his tobog- 
gan. 

“No white man can drink with tnese Indians and 
still be a guest in St. Felician,” blazed from Sandy 
MacCrae a couple of mornings later. “God knows 
how you got the rotten stuff into big John’s camp. 
Your vileness has set these hunters back and it will be 
a long time before they get their bearings again. God, 
had I my way” — and the old man trembled with the 
excess of his emotion. “Prepare to leave within an 
hour. You will set your face to the wilderness and 
pray your God that you will find repentance on the 
long trail.” 

The few spectators in the room pattered to the door 
without comment, turning curious glances to the dis- 
hevelled stranger as they disappeared. Like wildfire 
the news spread through the post and surrounding 
villages that the stranger from the city had been con- 
demned by the factor to “Le Grand Voyage.” 

Slow to anger, the wrath of MacCrae boiled and 
seethed, and an hour later to the dot his big hands 
clenched and unclenched as lie stood at the wide gate 
of the post and watched the flying team that bore the 
culprit away. The short day so peculiar to the north- 
ern country hastened to merge into a moonless night. 
Through the early hours of darkness MacCrae sat with 
knitted brows, pondering on the events of the day. 


38 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


The rub of soft, dry sapless branches was the only 
sound that broke the perfect silence of the black night. 
Not far from the post and just outside the fringe of 
little houses a dog team came to a halt and a hoarse 
voice bade them be still, which command they appeared 
willing enough to obey, for their hard breathing told 
of a long run. In the darkness a tall figure detached 
itself from the dark blotch that was the toboggan and 
glided furtively to the kitchen entrance of the post. As 
if sure that he would find it unlocked he quietly and 
unhesitatingly raised the bar and disappeared within. 
A stealthy creep up the wide rough hewn stairs and 
from the top step could be seen the splash of bright 
light that came from the half-open door of the factor’s 
den. Feeling his way with uncanny sureness to the 
nearest bedroom he knocked sofely on the door. No 
answer. Placing his ear to the keyhole a sob came to 
him from the darkness within. A slight pull on the 
latch thong, the bar slid up and * * * “Jean !” “Kitty,” 
and the two shadows became one. 

“Love is blind,” say those who are supposed to know. 
Be that as it may, but not many minutes later the two 
slipped silently down the way the one had come. 

Then as the door closed behind them with a slight 
thud, “Oh!” gasped the girl, “I have forgotten my 
purse. I cannot go on without it.” 

The man wasn’t keen on returning, but the girl in- 
sisted and with a muttered curse on his lips he dis- 
appeared through the door. Cautiously slipping along 
the lower 'floor he climbed once more the broad stairs 
till, as his head drew level with the floor above, he 
caught again the flash of light from the little office. 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


39 


Impatient at the carelessness that necessitated this 
hazardous trip for a second time, Lambert glided into 
the room and peered around by the half light of the 
pale, washed-out moon he made out the bulk of the 
purse on the bureau. Anxious to be gone, he reached 
out to grasp it. Whether it was that he misjudged the 
distance due to the deceptive light or what, his fingers 
missed their object and brushed against a tall vase 
bearing nothing more important than hat pins. A thud, 
as it hit the top of the bureau, followed by the crash 
of an avalanche, as it burst into a thousand pieces on 
the floor. 

With bated breath Lambert stood petrified in his 
tracks. He could hear the door of the office flung 
open and the heavy tread of the old man on the stair. 
With the first thought of the hunted, his hand moved 
mechanically to his belt and withdrew a long, murder- 
ous looking knife. In a minute the bedroom door was 
crashed back and a black figure towered in the door- 
way. Without a sound Lambert sprang forward, and 
with all his strength buried his knife to its hilt in the 
breast of the old factor. With a surprised grunt Mac- 
Crae swayed against the door jam; then slid limply to 
the floor. Two breaths later a shaking and excited 
man was tucking Kitty MacCrae in the toboggan and 
deaf to her surprised pleadings as to the purse he 
whooped up the dogs and shot out towards the wilder- 
ness. 

Loaded up to the handles of his toboggan with pro- 
visions for the month, young Sandy MacCrae decided 
on an early start on the morrow and finding the time 
hanging heavilv on his hands before bunking up, he 


40 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


bethought him to buy a small gift for his sister. Hav- 
ing thought of it, he set about the business with all the 
excitement of youth. It was a real store, this place at 
Menekek, and the choice of gifts ranged anywhere be- 
tween a Quebec heater to hair combs of flashing dia- 
monds and precious stones. With the shy aid of a 
dark-eyed little French lass, he at length picked upon 
a comfortable looking scarf of generous size and he 
bade her wrap it up. Stay! he had forgotten friend 
Lambert. Now what would he like? He had almost 
everything the heart could desire; but wait a minute, 
he recalled one occasion when Lambert had expressed 
admiration for the knife the young Scotchman wore. 
Thin, well hacked and worn, it, of course, was too old 
to think of giving to his friend. He would buy him 
one like it. So with the earnestness that he had ex- 
hibited in the selection of the girl's scarf, he set about 
the choosing of a knife. None could he find exactly 
like his own, but at length his decision was made on 
a beauty. A firm pressed-leather handle balanced to 
perfection a slender blade of ferocious length. With 
a pleased smile Sandy paid for his purchases, stuck 
the knife in his belt, tucked the scarf under his arm 
and made for the bunkhouse. 

When the cold, grey dawn of a new dky broke over 
the metropolis of Lac Menikek, MacCrae cracked his 
long whip, zoeed to his dogs and he was off on the 
home trail. Three days of uneventful travel brought 
him to the last lap of his long journey and as he entered 
his backyard, as it were, he mused on how Lambert 
would like the knife, and his hand strayed to its hilt to 
be sure it was there. Drawing up to the door of the 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


4i 


post with a flourish, he turned over the team to Potvin, 
the hunchback, and dashed to the trade room, where he 
felt sure to see his father. 

“Hello, dad ! Back again !” 

No answer. 

With a tremor in his voice he repeated the call : 
“Where are you, father?” 

The silence weighed upon his exuberant spirits. 

Still, the morning was young yet; perhaps, not ex- 
pecting him so soon, he might have gone out to big 
John’s camp. He’d see Kitty at any rate. Though, 
come to think of it, why hadn’t she met him at the 
door? Unable to answer his own question, he cleared 
the steps two at a time and in the door of Kitty’s room 
almost fell over the body of his father. Crumpled 
down in an awkward fashion, his right arm lay out- 
stretched and in the rigid fingers of the hand that had 
so often stroked the curly ringlets of his boy was a 
piece of cloth. 

Stunned by the shock, Sandy’s brain was in a whirl 
and the fact barely seeped through his brain that his 
father, the only parent he had in the world, lay at his 
feet done to death by the foul hand of an enemy. 
Stilled forever was the proud, true heart. The cloth 
in the hand caught his dull eye and he sought to un- 
loosen the grasp of those iron fingers; in vain they 
held unbending to their trophy. Where had he seen 
that bright checked wool before? Painfully he cudg- 
elled his brain. Good God! Now he had it; it was 
Lambert’s. Well Sandy remembered the bright red 
and blue crosses that had made him so envious of the 
Frenchman’s blanket coat. Surely it wasn’t the hand 


42 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


of his friend that had taken the life of his father. But 
try as he would, he could not rid himself of the thought 
and the bright colored bit of wool lay there in hideous 
insistence. Grief and shock turned to a terrible anger, 
the clear, cold, reasoning kind that comes only to strong 
men. 

Crossing the hall, Sandy opened the door of Lam- 
bert’s room. It was free of bags. A great thumping 
came from the trade room below ; stepping to the heat 
hole in the floor he called to those below : “Come up.” 

Surprised at the command, they shuffled to the stairs, 
then led by Whisper Wind, a dirty-looking Indian, 
they crept uncomfortably up and almost as suddenly 
as had Sandy they came to the body in the door. Over 
it stood the factor’s son. 

“Look, you people, my father is dead ; killed by the 
hand of the Frenchman, Lambert. I vow to God” — 
here every Indian hastily crossed himself — “that this 
knife” (and he flashed the one he had purchased for 
his friend) “shall not be sheathed save in the body of 
my enemy. I have spoken,” and he dashed from the 
room and down the stairs. 

With feverish haste he tore at the lashings of his 
load. Willing hands came to his help and the provi- 
sions were piled in the snow. There were only two 
trails to take, the one he had just traveled and the 
open one to the wilderness. With terrible intensity he 
packed provisions on the toboggan and added his Win- 
chester. With many gutteral exclamations of “It is 
good,” the crowd, with impassive faces, watched him 
flick the backs of his dogs as they nosed the unending 
trail of the wilderness. 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


43 


The fourth day out, MacCrae picked up the trail of 
the fugitives. It snowed hard that night and the dawn 
broke over a world of white that showed no trail. 
Rising above the obstacle, the man with unrelenting 
hate bore on in a general direction, so that two days 
later he picked up again the unmistakable tracks of 
his father’s toboggan. With no word but the swish 
and crack of his rawhide whip, he urged his dogs to 
greater speed and there came to him, borne on the soft 
winds of the late day, the faint, far-off howl of many 
wolves. The dogs heard it, too, and they lowered 
their heads to their galloping legs. 

Topping a rise the pursuer picked out a moving 
blotch far below him. With no exultation save a grim 
tightening of the lips, he tore down the incline. The 
clear, cold days that had been his lot now seemed 
about to change. The cold, grey sky suddenly became 
shot with scudding clouds of black and the little ridges 
of snow were whipped into dust by a biting wind that 
came from the sea freighted with soul-searing cold. 
Caught up in the roaring embrace of the mighty wind 
the snow was whirled aloft and dashed against the 
faces of the dogs and man. Even with their light load 
the huskies found hard going. The team ahead had 
long since been lost to sight in the blinding snow, but 
with unfaltering intensity MacCrae bent his aching 
shoulders to the storm and plodded on. 

Suddenly he tripped and fell over something at his 
feet. With eyelids almost glued together by the cold 
and snow, he could only reach down and feel with mit- 
tened hands. His heart gave a jump, his hands, muffled 
as they were, felt the double strapped form of a pack. 


44 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


Lambert was throwing away his load in order to move 
faster; he. must be in a bad way. A few yards further 
he stumbled over a bag of dog meat and soon after a 
rifle caught in his moccasined foot. As he bent to pick 
it up there came to his ear, high above the roar of the 
storm, the fearful cries of a hunting pack of wolves 
on the scent of prey and in a flash scores of the awful 
brutes howled for his blood. On every side he could 
see the blood-red fangs and shadowy shapes, when, as 
suddenly as they had come, they were gone, and he 
could hear them in the storm ahead. 

Whipping the whining dogs to their lines MacCrae 
forced them to continue, and just when the blackness 
of night was about to swoop down on the roaring 
world of wind and snow, MacCrae fell over a human 
body. Plucking the knife from his belt he advanced 
stiffly to plunge it into the heart of his enemy. No 
move came from the muffled figure in the snow. Alive 
to the treacherous nature of the Frenchman, he circled 
slowly around it. Still no movement. Cautiously he 
reached out and turned him over. “Good God!” the 
words burst from MacCrae’s lips and he stared with 
bloodshot, ice-encircled eyes at his sister’s closed eyes, 
as she lay huddled up in the snow. The small, white 
face told of the Arctic sleep that knows no waking. 
The frightful callousness of Lambert broke through 
even the hate that was MacCrae’s and he gasped. Ten- 
derly he lifted Kitty to his toboggan and sped on. The 
dogs snarled their objections to the increased pull, 
but their master whipped them to their task, for Mac- 
Crae reasoned blindly that his enemy must be worse 
off than he. 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


45 


All through that black, fearful night man and dogs 
fought their way against impending nature, and in the 
grey dawn of a bright day MacCrae bore down on a 
halted train. The toboggan lay on its side and in the 
trapled snow around were great stains of crimson, 
while bloody bones here and there were all that re- 
mained of man and dogs, and in every direction were 
tracks of monster wolves. 

The sight beat into meekness the hardened resolves 
of MacCrae, and as there burned through his mind the 
awful fate of his father’s murderer, he reverently 
crossed himself and muttered, “God’s will be done.” 
Then plucking the knife from his belt he cast it toward 
the overturned toboggan, so that it stuck in the crim- 
son-tinted snow, and as he turned away the bright 
sunlight of God’s day sparkled and shone on its un- 
tarnished blade. 


THE MIDNIGHT WATERLOO 

T HERE is nothing mean about the far northern 
wilds of Quebec. The very silence of the great 
North Woods breathes, as it were, a feeling of 
bigness. The lofty mountains, rearing their crests on 
every hand, speak of wonderful distances, of immense 
valleys and plains, seldom trod by the foot of the white 
man. None but the native breed knows of the decep- 
tive miles between peak and peak; weary, back-break- 
ing experience has taught them grim lessons. The very 
trees have a somberness that seems part of the very 
atmosphere. 

The few inhabitants blend their lives with their sur- 
roundings, mostly tall, gaunt and hard-looking; little 
laughter or amusement is to be found in a backwoods 
settlefnent ; somehow even the children seem to quickly 
grow old for their years. The very cabins, strong and 
massively built, crouch low, as if weighed down by the 
oppressive stillness of the black, snow-encumbered bal- 
sams. 

Here, in the cold, invigorating grip of a northern 
climate, where few strangers penetrate, live a strong, 
hardy lot of French-Canadian bushmen and breeds. 
With blood as much Scotch as it is Indian, they fight 
a hard, truceless battle with the great wilderness. 

Having to match their wits against the cunning of 
the little fur-bearers of the bush, many times hunger 
has knocked at the gaily painted doors of the little 
homes. This constant battle of wits has developed 
many good and clever hunters. Some, perhaps, a little 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


47 


more adept than others. Of all the veteran trappers 
of the settlement, Jean Dubuc was considered the most 
successful. His long, lonely trips to the far white 
slopes meant his return heavily laden with the fruits 
of the traps. Tall and thin, but powerfully built, Jean’s 
sixty winters rested lightly upon the long towselled 
locks of gray that had never felt a comb. 

In somber solitude he lived in a tumble-down shanty 
at the far bend of the main trail. To this lonely, hum- 
ble home there came one sharp, frosty evening a pack- 
train, led by a young Sioux from Lac au Salmon, 
thirty-one miles due west. Behind the sleigh, which 
was piled high with sundry provisions, strode three 
strangers. 

With a word, the young Indian halted the steaming 
huskies at the door. The weary travelers were wel- 
comed with all the warmth and good cheer peculiar 
to the French-Canadian bushman. The primitive latch 
string is always out in this wonderful land of snow. 

The city men, for such they were, told Jean of the 
vain quest for big game. Now, considerably discour- 
aged, they were on the point of returning to their 
starting point, when they came upon the stray Indian, 
who told them of the wonderful hunting on the steep 
slopes of these great hills. 

Supper over, boxes were drawn close to the blazing 
fire of pine knots, pipes were lit and amid the dancing, 
flickering shadows upon the tumble-down ceilings yarns 
were told and adventures recounted. Jean listened 
with open-mouthed incredulity to the tales of boats 
that carried two thousand people, of men who flew 
in the air and went under the sea in ships, and of the 


48 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


great war of which he had but faintly heard, and of 
millions of men involved. 

Poor Jean’s simple mind couldn’t grasp these tre- 
mendous facts at all. The nearest he ever had gotten 
to civilization was in the spring, when he went down 
the trail to Lac au Salmon to dispose of his winter’s 
catch. There he sold his furs, got his money and as 
speedily passed it over to the whiskey runners and 
came home poorer than when he left, and with but a 
hazy recollection of what had happened to him. 

Slowly, under the warmth and comfort of his pipe, 
the old hunter’s tongue loosened, and slowly, at first, 
he held his hearers spell-bound with tales of the wilds. 
Stranger even than many in books. There was no put- 
on or make-believe about the old fellow ; everything he 
recounted was with the simple talk of a wholly un- 
educated man. None of his listeners could express 
any doubt of the truth of his tales; they were hearing 
of the tragedies of the north from one who had lived 
and suffered the privations of the pioneer. 

Two of the old fellow’s listeners sat on upturned 
biscuit boxes, before the crackling flames ; the third, 
a mere slip of a lad, lay comfortably stretched full 
length upon a great moose skin. While listening to 
the deep voice of the narrator, this lad kept poking 
curious fingers into the long, thick hair of his couch. 

Slowly the warmth of the fire in his tingling mocca- 
sined free limbs, the tobacco poisoned air, and the 
drone of the voice had its effect, and after a few vain 
efforts to keep open his wearied eyes, he gently rolled 
over in sleep. In the next pause loud snores told of a 
deep, well-earned sleep. 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


49 


Swiftly the spirits of the wild free north picked him 
up in fancy and dropped him in a dense forest miles 
from the settlement. Few were the trails of the 
smaller wild folk. Nothing but the great hulking bear 
and lordly moose roamed the trackless glades. 

All day he sped upon a heavy, heart-breaking trail. 
His pack, fairly heavy at the start, now weighed down 
on his aching back like an everlasting sin. He had 
hoped before dark to make camp on the highest of the 
hills in the distance, but darkness was falling rapidly 
and he still seemed many miles from his goal. Sud- 
denly, fatigue, hunger and distance were forgotten like 
a flash. Dropping on one knee, his heart thumping in 
breathless awe, he beheld an immense print in the soft, 
powdery snow, the track of a gigantic moose. Nearly 
as big around as his snowshoes, the prints were sunken 
deep by the tremendous weight of the animal. 

The tracks came from a low, dense clump of alders 
on the right, crossed the open trail and disappeared in 
the darkness beyond. All the natural instincts of the 
hunter were strong upon him ; he dashed along the still 
warm trail of the moose, stumbling over logs in the 
darkness and tripping over partially buried brush. Two 
hours of rapid travel, at a good steady pace, brought 
him closer to his quarry; the prints showed he was 
quite near to the slow moving moose. Freshly barked 
twigs and low brush next appeared, as the big fellow 
had no doubt nibbled his supper. However, no sound 
broke the silence of the night. Pausing at a great 
birch, the hunter peeled off a generous piece of the 
tender bark and proceeded to make himself a call 
trumpet. Settling himself comfortably behind a large 


50 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


broken fir stump he placed his rifle across his knees, 
raised the trumpet to his lips and sent away into the 
silent, reaches of the black forest, the wierd, blood- 
curdling call of the love-lorn cow. Twice and thrice 
the call floated upon the soft night winds without 
response. The fourth brought a faint answer from far 
up the mountain slope; there was wafted down the 
deep-throated voice of a bull. Another followed close 
and in an amazingly short time, rumbling roars from 
the right of the gully bespoke the rapid approach of a 
king of the north. Call followed call, each nearer than 
the last, as he crashed through the bushes. 

The waiting mortal in the darkness felt the hair rise 
under his cap, and cold shivers chased each other up 
and down his spine. For one panicky moment he 
almost contemplated flight. Nearer and nearer the 
crashing came and suddenly there loomed up a few 
yards above him a vast black hulk, blacker even than 
the surrounding shadows. 

An enormous bull, he seemed to cut off the very air 
from thd shivering man’s lungs. His courage was 
down to zero, and he could no more have raised his 
gun than he could open his cracked and parched lips. 
He nearly jumped out of his skin, when the great 
brute sounded out his hoarse tempting note of passion. 
Instead of the expected soft low of a cow, a tre- 
mendous crashing far down the gully was the only 
answer. And suddenly a second vast shape reared 
itself out of the darkness and advanced up the slope. 

The first bull caught sight of the invader and came 
down the mountain to meet him. Too late the hunter 
realized his- frail shelter was fairly between the two 
angry warriors. 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


5i 


The darkness partly hid what was an awesome and 
wonderful sight. With deep-throated roars the charg- 
ing monsters met, not ten yards from the cowering 
man — a mighty grinding of many-tined antlers was 
quickly followed by grunting, straining battle. In the 
darkness the huge bodies appeared vast and unearthly ; 
he could hear the great gasps of mighty lungs. The 
unwitting author of all this could almost touch the 
sweating, straining flanks of the frothing demons. 

The battle progressed ; they were swaying across the 
open glade ; the second moose appeared to be butting 
and shoving his enemy with telling effect. Suddenly 
a bright, northern moon sprang from a mass of cloud 
with a burst of bright yellow light over the blood- 
stained snow. At the very instant the bigger bull 
caught sight of the unfortunate human, who in his 
excitement had leaned too far from his shelter. Quick 
as a flash the great beast turned and slashed at the 
stump with his sharp hoofs and horns. ' Grack ! It 
burst into a thousand pieces and outrolled the man in 
plain sight of the enraged animals. To turn and lunge 
at the prostrate kicking figure was but the work of an 
instant. Luckily the soft snow yielded to the pressure, 
and the full force of the thrust was lost. Desperately 
the man flung out his arms and caught the beast about 
the neck. A sudden jerk of the powerful shoulders 
flung him full twenty feet away into the thorny em- 
brace of a low mulberry bush. He scrambled to his 
feet in time to see the huge animal floundering down 
upon him. The stiff, coarse fur stood up on the arched 
neck with rage, and the bloodshot eyes rolled in scream- 
ing anger. 


52 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


Taking a long chance, the hunter staggered around 
the bush and sprinted with shaking knees to his rifle. 
He turned in time to be hurled over with the fury of 
the next charge. Staggering to one knee he took hur- 
ried aim and pulled the trigger. The heavy bullet 
stopped the animal for a second ; then he came lumber- 
ing down upon his victim, fifteen yards, ten yards, five 
— and with a prayer upon his lips the hunter sent a 
second messenger of death crashing into the brain of 
the charging bull. It stopped, spread wide his mighty 
legs, swayed gently like a stricken tree and sank heavily 
to the bloody snow. With a sob of thankfulness the 
nerve-broken human * * * awoke to find the fire 
burnt to ashes, the old trapper asleep on the table, 
while he himself lay with sweaty, clammy hand sunk 
deeply in the thick mane of the moose skin on the floor. 




YELLOW COAT 

A WILD screech as of one in pain cut through the 
cold air, and from the gapping black hole in a 
mass of snow-encrusted rocks there shot out a 
ball of blazing yellow fur. The long pointed black 
ears were flattened back and the fangs were bared in a 
snarl. One look he gave at the silent hole from whence 
he had come, then like a wraith the brilliant spot of 
color melted into the bush. 

Born in a litter of silver-black foxes, our hero’s coat 
of yellow had unhappily become the source of a great 
deal of trouble. His mother cuffed and bit at him as 
if he were not of her blood. His brothers and sisters 
snapped and snarled at him till he grew short and raw 
as to temper. The trouble had culminated that day. 

The father came home with a fat chicken filched 
from the hen house of a convenient farm. His mate 
tore the lucious feast into a thousand pieces and tossed 
them to her young. Hovering on the edge of things, 
Yellow Coat snatched at an incautiously exposed frag- 
ment. The watchful eye of the mother caught him 
and he was cuffed, bitten and chased to the outer air. 

Once the blackness of the woods closed over him, 
the little fellow made less speed. The long, sharply- 
pointed tongue hung low, for, like the wolf, the fox 
has that peculiar type of tongue through which he 
perspires. The narrow sides sank and distended as 
his breath came and went in short gasps. 

Unconsciously his feet carried him into the sunken 
bed of a small stream and he pattered along its wind- 


54 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


ing course. The cool, damp air from the rotten trees 
and leaf mould of the forest rose gratefully up to his 
hot body. 

The fox was young and not over rich in experience, 
for had he been well versed in the ways of his many 
enemies that infest the woods he would not have so 
carelessly pattered through the silence. Had he been, 
for instance, with his parents they would have taught 
him that to clatter noisily along was but an invitation 
to the fisher, wolverine or otter. He would most 
assuredly have been told how to slip not on a beaten 
track, but along its edge. Their wisdom would have 
warned him above all to abstain from crossing open 
spaces. But since he had never found favor in the 
sight of his elders he was without the very rudiments 
of self-preservation. He was but a beginner in the 
bitter, bitter school of experience. 

Thus it was that with no thought of danger he sped 
serenely on his way, treading with heavy foot the trails 
that wise foxes seldom trod, except at night, and then 
in fear and trembling. 

He daringly nosed along the heavily scented trail of 
a lynx and showed no fear when he actually stumbled 
on the grey murderer at his feast. The innocence of 
youth was his best defense in a world where guile and 
cunning was matched against even sharper guile and 
cunning in the never-ending struggle for life. 

The lynx looked up from his victim, a once dainty 
hare, with his coat all soiled and bloody ; the fiery eyes 
widened and blazed out a challenge ; the great inter- 
locking teeth were bared and the loosely hanging fangs 
dripped with blood. Yellow Coat was scared, not so 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


55 


much by the inspiring spectacle of the lynx as he was 
by the blood-curdling yell that was hurled at him. He 
dropped to his belly and slowly backed out of sight. 
Strange to say, the lynx did not bother pursuing him, 
but simply bent to his meal. No doubt the delicacy of 
his repast more than offset the love of battle usually 
so rampant in the breast of the wild of this kind. 

Little did the yellow fox know how near death he 
was that time, and the chance meeting failed to make 
any impression on his mind. Snarling, screeching ani- 
mals he had seen aplenty in his short life and they had 
to do more than that to worry him. 

For many days he wandered through strange, thick 
woods, whose damp, sweet trails of mould drew him 
on to strange places. Grubs, insects, beetles and often- 
times fat partridges fell to his lot, but in the case of the 
more wary grouse the quietness of his approach was 
not silent enough and the lunge of his teeth and claws 
not swift enough to number them among his meals. 

At night, through no special knowledge of his own, 
Yellow Coat would seek out a hole in a rotten tree, or 
a cavity in a mass of rocks, there curling his long, 
scraggly tail around his legs, he would lie through the 
night with his sharp little nose resting on his forefeet, 
while all around the unconscious figure the wild crea- 
tures of the forest went about their nightly business. 

It is at this hour that a wise fox, versed in the habits 
of his prey snatches many a tasty meal from the hurry- 
ing hares. 

Thus it was that one dark night, Yellow Coat, flat- 
tened comfortably in the warm, cosy hole of an absent 
ground hog, was rudely awakened by a sharp bite on 


56 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


his flank. A second nip made him howl with pain and 
he turned to meet his unseen aggressor. Even in the 
pitch darkness the fox could make out the short, squat 
form of the returned ground hog. Ordinarily a peace- 
ful enough animal, the latter will fight savagely in a 
case such as this. Smarting from the none too gentle 
nips of the sharp teeth, Yellow Coat backed his enemy 
from his home by the sheer fury of his attack, then he 
quickly turned tail and burst into the bright moonlight 
of the world above. The other did not follow him, 
and the fox, not wide awake, pointed his nose to the 
moon and trotted off into the shadows. 

In his wonderings of the last few weeks it had been 
gradually borne in upon him that death stalked through 
the forest and narrow escapes from preying enemies 
taught him some much needed lessons. The white, 
clear spaces of open wood, through which the clear, 
cold rays of the moon seldom penetrated, was the bait 
and hunting ground of the sly lynx, and the black 
somber shadows were his hiding places, from where 
he pounced upon the innocent life that was foolish 
enough to cross the open spaces. 

In time, Yellow Coat, too, lurked stealthily in the 
shadows, and many a fair-coated bunny fell to the 
swift leap. The shortening days and long, cool nights 
of autumn marked a change in the forest. The leaves 
broke from their moorings and fell ever so gently in 
vast silent clouds that lay as a crisp multi-colored car- 
pet on the uneven floor of the woods. The clean, 
straight maples and hard woods thrust their bare limbs 
to the cooling breezes. The thick, green underbrush 
faded and drooped and then added their burden of dry 
leaves to the countless mass under foot. 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


57 


Following the inexorable law of the forest, Yellow 
Coat gradually changed again into a garment of more 
pretentious qualities. The brightness of hisi summer 
coat was nothing compared to the fur that nature now 
gave him. Strange ambitions coursed through his veins 
and he felt particularly strong and full of spirits. He 
hardly could get used to seeing the different animals in 
their winter fur. The rabbits, lynx, marten and ’coon 
all put on pelage that far surpassed the fur of summer 
wear. The keenness of the hunt increased, and he had 
all he could do to keep from under the death-dealing 
claws of his many enemies, who now espied his com- 
ing from afar off. No longer could he crouch in the 
shadow of a clump of alders in wait for the strutting 
partridge, for they, too, caught sight of his brilliant 
coat in time to hop to a nearby branch and flap their 
wings at his’ discomfiture. It wasn’t long, however, 
before the fox found a way of beating them at their 
own game. Scenting a covey of plump birds, he sank 
to his belly and made some funny noises, half bark and 
half snarl, then the wily fox slunk around to their 
rear and grabbed the stupid birds as they were craning 
their necks to seek out the disturbance. This trick was 
of his own invention and he felt quite proud of him- 
self when he landed a couple of fine birds through this 
method. 

Moving in the day became much too dangerous and 
he wisely hid away during the bright hours of sunlight 
and only hunted in the long, cool nights. Soon the 
crackling carpet of leaves was buried deep under the 
snow and no animal passed but left a trail plainly 
marked in the white surface. While the scent of a 


58 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


passing animal didn’t linger long in the cold air, Yellow 
Coat quickly learned to distinguish between the trail 
of friend and foe. The deeply imprinted track of the 
wolverine he learned to fear and hate, while the dog- 
like track of the prowling wolf he avoided with the 
same care as he steered clear of the huge pad prints of 
the sly lynx. He could quickly tell by the tracks of a 
hare whether a tasty meal lay at the other end or only 
a long, vain chase without reward. 

Yellow Coat met many of his own kind and the 
magnificence of his coat easily outshone them all. The 
younger gazed at him with envy, while the old dog 
foxes were just as much impressed. But the restless 
spirit of his kind filled his soul and he tarried not over 
long in one spot. To-night the brilliant form flashed 
•along the overhung trails of the dark swamps. To- 
morrow night he would scamper along hilly trails of 
the mountains. Under such living conditions he grew 
big and heavy of frame. The severe lessons of his 
primitive training bore fruit and his fame in the hunt 
waxed great. But fame was not vouchsafed to him 
alone, for there was one other fox roaming the far- 
away stretches of forest who bore in his own country 
just such a reputation as Yellow Coat bore in his. 
From the moment the yellow fox heard of his rival he 
longed to meet him in combat. 

The looked for opportunity came sooner than he 
expected. Suddenly the quiet of the forest was broken 
by hundreds of little hurrying forms. The coming of a 
band of woodsmen on their mission of stripping the 
forest had routed these animals from their homes. 
Among them came Yellow Coat’s rival. The instant 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


59 


the yellow fox set eyes on him he knew that this was 
he. The big round barrel of a body was long and 
powerful and he was covered with a gorgeous coat of 
silver-black fur. They met face to face on the hard 
beaten track of a lumber road. Without a sound the 
stranger turned on his heels and sped away, Yellow 
Coat following. Mile after mile the black fellow led 
him on. Gradually it was borne in upon the yellow fox 
that this country was familiar and he suddenly woke 
to the fact that this was the place of his birth. 

At last the black shape ahead stopped, turned and 
waited his coming. Yellow Coat knew as well as the 
other that it was to be a fight to the death and his heart 
did not fail him. 

The black fox pranced towards him, the great feet 
hitting the hard packed snow with firmness and deci- 
sion. The wide, fuzzy neck ruffle at his throat marked 
the blueness of his blood, and Yellow Coat was glad 
tfiat his antagonist would be worthy of his steel. The 
big, bright eyes shone at him from the black face like 
beacon lights from the darkness of night. The huge, 
bushy tail was held in the perfect curve of the fight- 
ing fox. 

Yellow Coat prepared himself for the charge that he 
felt was coming. He crouched low on his .haunches, 
belly almost touching the snow, yet the forelegs were 
stifT and taut. 

Fairly matched as to size, the yellow fox had perhaps 
a shade of the advantage in experience. He had that, 
as the result of his more plebian career, but the black 
fellow soon proved that what he lacked in experience 
he more than made up in red-blooded courage. 


6o 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


With a low growl of warning the black form shot 
through the air and smothered the other with his 
weight. *The yellow fox expected such a move, how- 
ever, and the rigid muscles loosed and purposely gave 
to the impact. He was up in a flash and before his 
enemy could turn, his teeth met in the soft part of an 
ear. With a yelp of anguish it was jerked free. Back 
they pranced from each other, one with shredded ear, 
the other with aching back. 

Then Yellow Coat carried the war into enemy terri- 
tory ; he rose on his hind legs and sought with a mighty 
downward sweep of his forepaw to end the fight there 
and then. Luckily for himself the black fellow, in an 
effort to get out of the way, tripped and fell on his 
back and there he lay presenting all four feet to the 
onslaught of the other. The descending death-dealing 
claws missed him by a hair’s breadth. Yellow Coat 
was too old a fighter to run in on the black and he 
backed away. In the quickness of an eye-flicker, the 
black shape sprang from an awkward position and the 
yellow fox, fooled by the very clumsiness of the attack, 
felt the iron jaws fasten in the loose flesh under his 
chin. In vain he planted his feet and swung the cling- 
ing form clean off his feet. The instant he paused he 
felt the sharp feeth searching for his windpipe. 

Here and there they rolled, snarling and spitting, 
now disappearing in a cloud of loose snow which bord- 
ered the trail, again bringing up with a thud against 
some tree. His head, pulled down by the weight of 
his antagonist, Yellow Coat tore great gashes in the 
unprotected belly of the black. 

For a moment the advantage seemed to lie with the 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


61 


yellow, but an instant later by some twist of his power- 
ful body the black fox seemed his master. But victory 
at last perched on the arms of Yellow Coat. His teeth 
searching for a vital spot felt the warm throat of his 
adversary under his jaws. A snap, a twist and the 
once glorious black shape lay stiff and stark on the 
crimson snow. 

With panting, heaving sides the victor was licking 
his bloody wounds when a low growl made him look 
up. Bearing down upon him was a great black shape. 
Yellow Coat was puzzled. The oncoming animal 
seemed much like his late antagonist. Where had he 
seen that shape before? Suddenly a flood of remem- 
brance came over him and in a flash he recognized the 
autocrat of his old home, the mother that had driven 
him with cuffs and bites. Instinctively he braced him- 
self to meet this new danger. Twenty yards, ten yards, 
five yards, then Yellow Coat could see the whites of 
her old, bloodshot eyes. The remembrance of the 
terror of her paws came over him, he fought against 
it for an instant, then with his tail between his legs 
and with a yelp of fear, he who had just fought a terri- 
ble battle to the death turned and tore into the friendly 
protection of the deep woods. 


CALL OF THE WILD ANSWERED 

T HE low, squat-looking cedars hung down, over- 
burdened with more than their fair amount of 
snow. Around each -clump of ash and every 
funny-looking stump the cold north wind had brushed 
and whisked the fluffy snow into beautiful little ridges 
and hollows. The bush was still with that awesome 
silence so great in the Northern Quebec woods. 
Though it was only early afternoon, no sun was visible ; 
but in January, who needed bright sun ? Certainly not 
the trapper, for sun kept the wily fur-bearers basking 
in its ever welcome rays. 

There was a crunch, crunch, the over-burdened fir 
in the far corner of the glade was violently shaken and 
there strode into the clearing a husky, well-built man 
of fifty or thereabouts. Clean cut and strong, Jean 
Tremblay, trapper and hunter, cut a splendid figure as 
he swung on his way over the almost invisible trail, 
the lift and swing of his snow-covered snowshoes mak- 
ing a dreary, lonesome sound in the wonderful silence. 

For five hours Jean had been on his trap line and he 
was now nearing the finish of his fifteen-mile walk. 
That his luck was fair was plain to see, for hanging 
from his ceinture fleche was one dark marten, two fine 
fishers, one wolf and five splendid minks. One more 
trap, then home to the camp to fire, warmth and a meal. 

No matter how long a man has been hunting, no 
true sportsman can approach a set trap without experi- 
encing some degree of excitement. Thus our friend 
Jean, though he had hunted and trapped for the best 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


63 


part of his life, drew in his breath and made his way 
cautiously to his trap. Suddenly a slight sound from 
that direction made him pause, with one snowshoe in 
the air. Drawing back a pace, Jean shifted the belt 
of skins around his waist, tightened his grasp on his 
gun and softly crept around the intervening low bushes. 
There, securely caught in the cunningly laid trap, was 
a huge female wolverine, the “Devil of the North.” 
Ask any trapper of the Far North how many wolver- 
ines he has caught and he will probably tell you stories 
that will make you gasp. 

Of tremendous size she was, but caught in the cruel 
jaws of the powerful trap, her great strength availed 
her naught. She made an inspiring, picture to the de- 
lighted Jean as she snarled and growled, and tore at her 
bonds. By her side crouched a small wolverine, no 
larger than a large sized cat. It crept close up to its 
infuriated mother and eyed the man’s approach with 
mild curiosity. Jean made short work of the mother 
and after some difficulty secured the little fellow. 

Resetting the trap the woodsman continued on his 
way with the large skin swinging at his belt with the 
others and the young animal tucked under his blanket 
coat. 

Reaching the cabane, Tremblay dropped his belt 
upon the floor with a sigh of relief, for a spell of mild 
weather had made snowshoeing difficult. As for the 
wolverine, he wandered around the small place making 
himself at home. True to the reputation of his kind, 
nosing under everything and in every corner. For of 
all animals, the wolverine is the most marvelously 
curious. 


6 4 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


Weeks went by and Sammy Carcajou (Carcajou 
being French for wolverine) became a great favorite 
with the neighboring half-breeds in the nearby settle- 
ment. To the lonely living woodsman the wolverine 
proved himself a good comrade, often following Jean 
around like a dog. 

Night after night, in the long hours, Tremblay would 
sit with his feet on the top of the little stove, his clay 
pipe in his mouth and hold conversation with his odd 
friend. 

“Mais, mon cher petit enfant, comme avez vos passez 
la journey?” 

Short summer came and went and wild winter, with 
its wonderful blanket of white, once more was spread 
o’er the land. Sammy had now reached his full growth 
and a great beast he was, too, measuring a full five 
feet between the tip of his short black tail and the 
point of his fine cold snout. His thick, stout fur coat 
was a rich brown in color, with a marvelous saddle of 
grey-white. Powerful legs supported his weight and 
he showed teeth of great whiteness and strength. 

To the dismay of the hunter, Sammy, as the winter 
advanced, once gentle, now developed a most vicious 
and uncertain temper. This rapidly grew worse until 
even Jean was nervous whenever he bared his great 
teeth, and the old men of the settlement shook their 
shaggy heads and muttered that “No good ever came 
from Le Diable du Nord.” 

Les fetes, or Christmas, went by and the cold Janu- 
ary winds blew with more than wonted velocity around 
the mud caked cabins of the settlements. At the close 
of one short, dreary day, early in the new year, Jean, 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


65 


making his way home from his trap line, was surprised 
upon coming in sight of his cabane to see the small 
window torn away. With anger in his heart, he strode 
into the hut, for he at once assumed that a thief had 
broken into his place and robbed him of his toil. Of 
all crimes in the North, fur stealing is accounted the 
most despicable, for the hunter’s catch usually repre- 
sents all he has in the world. But the sight that met 
Jean’s eyes showed him that this was no human 
marauder. Pots and pans were overturned, furs torn 
down from the walls and in a mass of straw from the 
bunk was a fine black fox skin, ripped and torn. The 
hunter realized that what he had long dreaded had 
come to pass. The wolverine had heard the call of his 
native wilds and true to his blood he had gone back 
to his own, but such was the inherent wantonness of 
the animal, it had torn and destroyed everything within 
reach, eventually making his escape through the win- 
dow which had first attracted the trapper’s attention. 
We must leave Jean on the edge of his bunk with anger 
and sorrow in heart surveying the littered floor. 

Numerous trap stealings soon notified the country- 
side of the wolverine’s escape. Trap after trap was 
cleaned out by this strange animal and naturally Trem- 
blay, of all trappers, suffered the most. For a short 
time cessation of hostilities lulled the trappers into 
fancied security. They supposed that after the man- 
ner of his kind, new hunting grounds had called him. 

Suddenly, as a bolt from the blue, came tidings of 
the finding by a trap of the torn and mutilated body 
of Joseph Perron. Large wolverine footprints in the 


66 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


surrounding snow showed plainly enough that Sammy 
Carcajou had taken toll of human life. 

Rendered fierce and wild by the intense cold which 
had kept rabbits to their holes, Sammy had made 
eventually a big kill. The long rest that followed was 
when he was supposed to have left the vicinity. 

Again being driven out to hunt by hunger, he had 
stalked the unfortunate hunter Perron and sprang 
upon his back as he was bending over a trap. 

Deep were the imprecations laid upon the name of 
the savage wolverine and from that hour every man’s 
hand was turned against him. 

The winter dragged on its weary way and the wol- 
verine, still at large, worked havoc with the trap lines. 
No trap could nip him, no hunter shoot him. He 
seemed to bear a charmed life, but the end was not 
far off. 

No man swore deeper vengeance than did Jean 
Tremblay. His former love for his pet had now turned 
to hate and ever was he on the hunt for the wolverine. 
As he sped on his rounds one cold, clear day, he sud- 
denly heard a crashing through the bushes of some 
heavy animal. Nearer and nearer it came. Gripping 
his rifle tightly, Jean bent down under cover, when 
there suddenly burst into view a large bull caribou. 
Wild eyed, panting with fright, it dashed here and 
there, in a vain effort to rid itself of some animal 
perched on his back. There, with his terrible teeth 
deep in the heaving shoulder of the caribou, was 
Sammy Carcajou. 

Hardly pausing a moment, Jean raised his rifle and 
fired. The shot was fatal; but so deep were the wol- 




NORTHLAND STORIES 


67 


verine’s teeth that though the bullet had passed through 
his brain he remained on the caribou’s back. As the 
shot rang out the caribou paused, spread wide his legs, 
swayed gently, then sank gracefully to the snow, dead. 
And Sammy’s skin to-day is handled by some furrier 
in far-off Quebec, who little recks of the tragedy which 
followed the life of the “Devil of the Northern Wilds.” 


THE CROWN SABLES 

T HREE days' journey from Irbit the dusty, travel- 
stained caravan straggled to a halt for the noon- 
day rest. Away up in the front the black cart 
of the hills, with the yellow wheels, ceased to shriek 
and the bony little beast in the shafts dropped to his 
belly on the sands with a grunt of relief. In a trice 
every one of the nondescript horses had done likewise, 
while the bearded drivers clustered around a cart in 
the center of the line. Squatting on their haunches, 
with long coat tails sweeping the ground, they dug 
from the depths of greasy pockets their dinner of black 
bread and garlic, which they proceeded to munch with 
great gusto. 

The Cossacks, or White Riders, who seemingly com- 
posed an armed guard, rained their wonderful little 
mounts to one side and emptied their knapsacks of 
rations. Having no truck or trade with the “dogs” of 
drivers, the haughty tribesmen jammed their tall 
Creemer caps over their eyes and scowled at the squat- 
ting “pigs.” 

That this was an unusual cavalcade was evident by 
the curious glances of the passing wayfarers. Sud- 
denly a tall, gaunt man, who seemed to be the leader, 
rose from the group and clattered over the dirt strewn 
highway into the shadow of the dingy, mud built inn. 
Sullen, almond-shaped eyes followed his actions with- 
out comment. Doubtless Cra-Chow knew what he was 
about and did he not pay them well, even promising 
more if they stayed with him till Irbit was reached. 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


69 

“All for a few worthless skins,” laughed Shi-Chang, 
and the others roared in huge delight. 

Pushing his way roughly past the inevitable beggars, 
with their clattering bowls, the tall, dusty traveler 
strode into the inner room and scowled at the old man 
cross-legged at the mud table. 

“Quick, thou old devil, a horse and a man, for I 
must be upon my way and my carts are top heavy.” 

Tiny, piggish eyes flashed from under the shaggy 
brows of the old man, but at sight of the terrible scar 
on the other’s face, he cringed. 

“Yes, master; but where is the end of the way?” 

“Irbit, you dog of a shopman,” and then, “on the 
White Father’s business,” and he spun a handful of 
coins at the old fellow’s feet. 

Whether it was the click of the silver, or the magic 
of the White Father’s name, a coated figure stepped 
out of the darkness and bowed low to the stranger, 
who without more adieu grasped him by the arm and 
propelled him to the door. 

“Wait, master, I will lead the beasts to the road,” 
and he slipped back into the darkness. 

“Bring no vodka with you,” roared his employer 
after him and immediately pushed his way back to 
the carts. 

Inside the garlic-scented courtyard the newly re- 
cruited driver, whip in hand, was about to mount to 
his seat, when something hard descended on his head 
and he sank to the ground without so much as a grunt. 
A twin figure to the fallen one yanked the whip from 
his hand, pulled himself easily to the seat and yayed 
the crazy, wobbling team through the courtyard gate. 


70 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


IT ’ \ 


A burst of coarse jest and laughter greeted his arrival 
and vulgar were the remarks cast at the two beasts tied 
in the awkward shafts : “Son of the stinking hills, is 
this your father’s ass?” 

“And his cow?” roared another. “Surely the mas- 
ter is crazy to hire such, but we need thee badly.” 

Without reply, the newcomer, collar turned well up 
over his ears, guided his squeaking cart to the end of 
the line of other squeaking carts. At an order from 
Cra-Chow bales of barter were quickly transferred to 
the fresh cart. In the bustle and excitement of the 
change, the new driver somehow, or other succeeded in 
being one of the first to reach the leader’s cart and a 
pair of sharp, most unoriental-looking eyes searched 
the interior before he was> roughly shoved aside and 
almost trampled on by the horse of a careless rider. 
Cra-Chow reentered his vehicle, the weary horses were 
prodded to their feet, the armed soldiers closed up, 
their cruel, slender lances resting on the saddle at the 
hip and the journey was resumed to the frightful 
squeaks of unoiled wooden wheels, and the new cart 
sought to outsqueak all the others, so that foul, biting 
oaths were flung back of the line to meet no reply. 

Sunk into the folds of his voluminous driving coat, 
which, like every other man’s, was wrapped tightly 
around his body, the newly engaged driver kept an 
exceedingly sharp eye on the wobbling line that 
stretched out in front of him. Night found them rest- 
ing by the banks of a muddy stream that gurgled slug- 
gishly through the ooze of its filthy bed. The fire from 
the scanty coals in the tiny braziers reconstructed into 
giant shadows on the sands the swathed figures that 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


7 1 


squatted around. A small driver near the outer ring 
of men glanced furtively from under the furry edge of 
his cap at his neighbor, who happened to be Cra-Chow’s 
own driver. 

“The master comes from afar?” 

The other, a thin, shriveled little Mongolian, almost 
lost in the folds of his coat, without glancing up, re- 
plied, “Nichni.” 

“And how many days’ journey from Nichni is Irbit?” 
persisted the stranger. 

“Ha, so many I know not,” and he snorted in dis- 
gust. 

“Art cold?” and an earthen flask was pushed into 
his grasp ; instinctively the bony fingers closed upon it 
and carried it to his lips. 

“The master was cruel. * God, what fine liquor this 
stranger carried.” 

The fiery spirit gurgled down his hairy throat and 
the flask was handed back, empty, at which the stranger 
seemed in no whit displeased. 

Silence of the desert enfolded the sleeping camp and 
save for the faint squeak of a wheel as a restless horse 
shifted his position, or the jingle of a chain as a Cos- 
sack’s mount champed his bit, no sound rose to the sky 
of a million stars. 

Faintly, a whisper: “I have more in my cart. It is 
good to wet the lips with the kiss of the God’s.” 

Without comment, the invited one, he of Cra-Chow’s 
cart, slipped cautiously from the light of the dying 
coals after the whisperer. Reaching the last cart, the 
host fumbled under the seat. 

“Be silent, here it is,” and as the lean fellow reached 


72 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


in the direction of the voice, something hard desended 
on his head and he slid to the sands with a surprised 
“uh.” For a slow-moving Mongolian, the sharp-eyed 
one worked with great rapidity, so that not very many 
minutes later a half-sleeping driver cursed with great 
fervor the ancestors of him who had walked on him 
and he opened bleary eyes to see the lean driver of the 
master’s cart lie down beside him. 

In the ghostly light of dawn the travelers partook 
of a hasty breakfast and swung to an early start. 

“Pest of a merchant, what ails thee?” and, jumping 
out of his cart, Cra-Chow strode up to the silent cart 
in the rear. 

Tearing the curtains aside, his angry eyes beheld the 
huddled figure of what appeared to be the drunken 
stranger. 

“Pig, that you may lie there till the dogs and asses 
eat your rotting carcass,” and the load was again 
transferred from the cart. 

Loud complaints of the weight of his load from the 
master’s driver resulted in the bundles being divided 
among the others. Sorely out of temper, so that the 
evil face with the bloody scar drew hasty crosses from 
the trembling drivers, Cra-Chow climbed to his seat 
and another start was made. 

Keeping entirely to himself, the master’s driver 
calmly ignored the coarse banter that swept up and 
down the line from driver to driver. Luckily the 
others knew him of old and thought nothing of it. 

At the noonday meal, while his companions gathered 
together like the animals they were, he slumped in his 
seat and bit into his bread and garlic, not failing to 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


73 


note meanwhile that the Cossack’s who had kept closely 
beside the carts on the march had now wheeled to one 
side in relaxation. Suddenly one of the leading ponies, 
the brown and white one from the hills, nipped a chunk 
from the back of his neighbor. He was not naturally 
vicious, indeed it was done in a spirit of playfulness, 
but somehow the victim failed to appreciate the humor 
of it and gave a loud squeal. That squeal marked the 
passing of the crown sables of the Czar of all the Rus- 
sians. Always alert, Cra-Chow had poked his head 
through his curtains ; instantly a white hand, entirely 
too white for a Mongolian’s, slipped down from the 
driver’s seat, yanked a bundle from the pocket in the 
side of the cart and reappeared a second later with an 
exactly similar bundle which was deftly jammed from 
where the first was taken. When Cra-Chow withdrew 
his head with a curse, his driver was morosely munch- 
ing his evil-smelling meal. 

When the darkness made traveling too difficult .that 
night, they camped in a little cup of the great foot 
hills. To-morrow at high noon would see them at 
their journey’s end in the swirl of the teeming crowds 
of Irbit. Rich men, poor men, beggar men, thieves; 
they all would be there with the two latter kinds far 
outnumbering the others. The soldiers laughed and 
joked about the time in store for them, while the 
drivers commented loudly and coarsely on the joys of 
vodka slopping down their craven throats. In the 
quietness of his cart Cra-Chow thought deeply and 
thankfully of the end of his mission. Cruel, clever and 
of powerful influence, the agent of the Romanoffs, 
after careful deliberation, had picked on him to carry 


74 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


to Irbit and there turn over to the Emperor’s Chancel- 
lor, as forfeit of his life, the bloody tribute exacted 
from the people of the Amursky district in the form of 
five-and-twenty marvelous skins of sable. Ten long, 
bitter years had the agent spent in the collecting of 
these kingly pelts and they were stained with human 
blood. None but the little White Father, the Czar of 
all the Russians, had divine right to such as these. He 
had guarded them well ; bah ! even without the aid of 
these stupid insolent Cossacks, and he confidently 
fondled the tightly sealed package in the pocket at his 
hand. 

Slowly the mysterious night swept down and en- 
folded the camp. The coals in the puny braziers sput- 
tered to their death and the low voices of the men 
faded to silence. 

So anxious were the men to be gone, they were astir 
before the dawn had fairly broken over the ghostly 
hills. A sleepy Cossack scampered to his captain and 
reported the loss of his horse ; then, strange to say, the 
master’s driver could not be found. Cra-Chow, as im- 
patient as the others, cursed the breed from the first 
to the last one, so that the ruffians shrank under the 
lash of his tongue and the baleful gleam of the hideous 
scar. Truly the master bath truckings with the devil. 

“On! what matter if a pig of a driver did steal a 
horse to sooner reach his pot of liquor, that he may 
choke on the second bottle?” 

The others, who had been considering a request to 
the master for an advance in their wages, decided it 
would be far more pleasant to wait, and the Calvalcade, 
on the last lap of their wearisome journey, descended 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


75 


on that great city of barter which lay like a filthy, 
slumbering giantess, restless in her awakening. 

* * * * 

The glorious sun of a near-Easter day broke through 
its prison of fairy clouds and streamed down on the 
bustling crowds of Fifth avenue. Up and down that 
incomparable street of Eden, the sophisticated men and 
more sophisticated women of the day scurried about 
their business and pleasure. Women, those who were 
painted and those who were not, burdened as to shoul- 
ders with furs that were costly and rare. A slight, 
unpleasant little man, unnoticed in the hurrying crowd, 
scanned the store fronts from under the rim of a dis- 
reputable slouch hat. Suddenly, in a half hesitant man- 
ner, he slipped through a broad door that bore on a tiny 
brass plate of costly design the words : International 
Furriers, London, Paris and New York. 

On the inside a gigantic negro, standing precisely 
in the center of a pattern of the flowered carpet, eyed 
the customer with sharp and ill-concealed disfavor. 

“De boss, lead me to the boss, bo.” 

Half in doubt the natty green uniform led the way 
down a thickly carpeted aisle to the sanctum of “de 
boss.” 

“A gentleman to see you, Mr. Bernstein,” and the 
unkempt client was ushered in. 

The amazed darky stood still for a moment, then: 
“Can you beat it ?” and turned on his majestic heel. 

Half an hour later, when Milstock opened the man- 
ager’s door to inquire whether it would be all right to 
let Mrs. Swineburn take away the $5,000 mink coat 
on the strength of her personal check, he saw and heard 


7 6 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


— well, what he saw and heard did not phase him in 
the least, because you see Milstock was a good sales- 
man, might we say a supersalesman ; he had to be in 
order to sell $5,000 mink coats to women who did not 
want their husbands to know about it. 

“But, holy mackerel!” came from the lips of the 
dignified Bernstein, “these are the crown sables, the 
finest, the most wonderful Russians that have ever 
come out of the Amurskys. How in the world did you 
get them? I thought you were one of that bunch 
drafted into Siberia?” 

“Now, my friend, you ask too many questions ; I 
know them skins are all you say they are, so come 
across with the 10,000 ‘bucks’ and they’re yours.” 

And as Milstock, good salesman that he was, dis- 
creetly closed the door, he saw Bernstein grasp in his 
hand a bundle of the most exquisite Russians ever 
dreamed of. Even to where he stood in the door, the 
blue-black of the pelts flashed their glory to him, so 
that he caught his breath. 

Early next day, while Milstock was carefully preen- 
ing himself before the double mirrors in the showroom, 
a preemptory summons from the inner office came to 
him. The pink, glistening face of his employer greeted 
him with a smile. 

“Ah, Milstock, please telephone Mrs. Von Story that 
we have received on special consignment from our 
agent in Russia some truly marvelous sables and ask 
her if it will be convenient for her to call any time 
to-day ?” 

“Yes, sir.” * 

“And, oh, Milstock, I think you might say that these 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


77 


skins are even better than young Mrs. Powerhills.” 

As we have said before, Mr. Milstock was a super- 
salesman, so that he smiled at this last piece of 
strategy. 

“Sure, the old man was a slick one.” 

Mrs. Von Story came and Mrs. Von Story Went, 
leaving in the pugy fat hand of the International Fur- 
riers a tiny check for the handsome amount of 
$18,000.60, the sixty cents being an after thought of 
Mr. Bernstein’s and represented the cost of clearing 
the skins through the customs. And for him the affair 
was closed when a few weeks later his carefully chosen 
and expensively gowned messenger delivered to the 
delighted Mrs. Story, at her home on Park avenue, the 
Russian sable cape that was even finer than young Mrs. 
Powerhill’s. Months rolled on. New York was at 
her gayest, when suddenly the morning papers flashed 
before their jaded readers the tragedy of the year: 

“Terrible murder of Mrs. Von Story. Prominent, 
wealthy society woman killed in her home last night.” 

Then the details followed in a couple of columns, 
closely set in eight-point type: 

“A maid, disturbed by a noise in her mistress’ room, 
gave the alarm and aroused the house. Patrolman 
Nelan, No. 3745, hearing the cries, rushed to the spot 
in time to see two men scramble out of a window. 
Refusing to halt at his command the policeman fired. 
One of the pair, a huge man, staggered, and as he fell, 
passed some bulky article to his companion, who made 
good his escape, despite the efforts of the brave officer. 
On examining the fallen man, it was found that the 
bullet had pierced a lung and he was dead. 


78 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


“Mrs. Von Story had been cruelly handled, every 
bone in her body appeared to have been crushed and 
around the throat was a thong of greasy leather, ap- 
parently part of a whip. While no jewelry or money 
appeared to have been stolen, Mrs. Von Story’s maid 
affirms that some kind of expensive fur cape had dis- 
appeared. 

“A reporter, visiting the morgue this morning, found 
the dead robber to be a Chinaman or Mongolian of 
huge size. The cruel face was made even more repul- 
sive by a terrible scar across one cheek, while in his 
clothing was found an envelope addressed to one Cra- 
Chow.” 


A TRAGEDY OF THE NORTH 

S ECURELY built in the curve of rock at the foot 
of a high mountain which seemed to stand guard 
over it was a long, low hut. Heavily built and 
staunch, it presented a stolid and unchanging, front to 
the bleak north winds. The force it represented seemed 
to radiate from every rough nook and crannie of its 
walls; even the air around seemed charged with the 
stern majesty of the force it sheltered. Inhospitable 
in appearance was this post of the “Royal Northwest 
Mounted Police” and to the simple, superstitious- 
minded Indians and trappers it had a dreadful and fear- 
some aspect. In fact, they peopled it in their imagina- 
tion with beings huge and terrible, who hunted and 
pursued those who broke the laws of the great White 
Mother even to the Happy Hunting Grounds. None 
of the Indians ever entered the post but had a feeling 
of dread of the red-coated men, and as they seldom 
entered, except when under arrest, their terror was 
more or less natural. 

The cold, bleak wind whistled dismally in the dark- 
ness and howled around the walls, guttering through 
the moss-filled cracks until the flame in the brass lamp 
swinging above the desk flickered and jumped, threat- 
ening darkness at every gust. A sigh sounded in the 
semi-darkness and a man seated at the desk threw 
down his pen and stretched himself as if he could now 
honestly relax from a long and tedious job. 

The unsteady light flickered and cast dark shadows 
softly on the face of the man. A strong face it was, 


8o 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


lined and creased with care; a rather large nose and 
keen blue eyes marked the owner as being a man 
among men. The straight thin line of lips and heavy 
chin showed a man of inflexible will, who had seen 
much of life and who had fought with man and storm 
many long and hard battles. 

The sigh was one of relief as he signed his name to 
the long, formal report to headquarters. 

Leaning back in his chair, feet upon the desk, he pro- 
duced his clay and gave himself up to quiet enjoyment 
before turning in. 

A loud knock sounded on the door, followed by the 
entrance of a young uniformed orderly ; instantly the 
man at the desk dropped his feet, straightened up in 
• the chair, and presented to the newcomer his usual stiff 
and soldierly appearance. Halting the required num- 
ber of paces, the boy, for he was nothing more, saluted. 

“Well?” snapped the lately indolent officer. 

“Report just in from the Grand Bois Camp, sir,” re- 
plied the orderly. “Cree Indian robbed and killed on 
his arrival with his furs; Frenchman by the name of 
Baptiste Blais has fled the camp with the stuff. The 
messenger skipped, sir, before we could collar him.” 

Having finished, the orderly stood at attention per- 
fectly steady and were it not for the steely glitter of 
his eyes one might imagine him a statue. 

The man at the desk was silent, bending over some 
papers, making notes. 

Suddenly raising his head, he snapped out: “Send 
for Sergeant Macdonald at once.” 

Silence reigned in the room when the orderly left; 
outside the cold wind moaned and howled. 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


81 


Once more a knock sounded -and the door opened 
to admit a short, thick-set man, with tanned and scarred 
face. Iron grey hair showing under the edge of his 
service cap, marked a man in his prime. 

He had been wakened with the order: “The chief 
wants Macdonald !” 

He had immediately tumbled into his clothes and had 
left his comrades sitting on the edge of their bunks, 
drowsily discussing the murder and offering bets as 
to who would be sent after Blais. 

Carrying himself with the swing which seems to be 
part of every mounted policeman, he stopped at the 
desk and saluted. 

“Macdonald,” spoke the chief, “I suppose you have 
heard of the murder of this,Cree. Now Blais is surely 
the man. You know him; he stole the three boxes 
from the schooner and got three years for it. Now, 
Mac, he had three full days start on you and he knows 
we will be after him. I don’t have to tell you how 
desperate he is and there is only one place he can hope 
to escape us. He is bound to try and lose us in the 
plains.” 

Many a weary mile had Macdonald covered at dif- 
ferent times in pursuit of men; but his face blanched 
under his tan as he realized what that meant at this 
particular season of the year. His thoughts wandered 
to the lost time he had been in the Far North and the 
fearful time he had had. 

He was brought abruptly back to earth by the next 
words of the superintendent: “Now, Macdonald, the 
snow is deep and soft after all this heavy weather and 


82 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


Blais might get across and then again he might not. In 
any case, I want you to get him.” 

To the average person this simple order might mean 
but little; but to the Royal Northwestern Mounted 
Police it meant short days’ of terrible glaring snow; 
of long, dreary nights; of half rations; of staggering 
on and on with ever these fatal words ringing in his 
ears : “Get him !” 

“Take Trooper Burr with you to give a hand. It’s 
going to be a long chase, for Blais is desperate and 
will take every chance, particularly if he imagines we 
are already on his trail. Moreover, he is three days’ 
journey behind Gros Lone’s team, the best huskies 
this side of the Slave. Now, Mac,” and his stern face 
softened as he spoke, for he knew what it meant to 
take the northern trail when the stormy season was 
about due, “you know the slogan, ‘dead or alive,’ you 
must get him; if it takes a lifetime, get him! You had 
better take the team with that new leader and three 
weeks’ provisions. You’ll need ’em. Don’t lose any 
more time. Start in the morning now, good-bye.” 

Rising, the chief stretched out his hand, that of the 
sergeant met it, and they clasped in a hearty, friendly 
shake. Saluting the sergeant turned on his heel and 
strode out. 

* * * 

The early morning hours were filled with sounds of 
bustle and activity. Mingled with the loud orders of 
men were the savage yelps of excited dogs. In a short 
time the door of the stable opened and there emerged 
a team of powerful huskies drawing a heavily-laden 
toboggan. Following it were two men drawing on 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


83 


their fur gauntlets as they came. The team was halted 
at the door of the office. The sergeant went in while 
Burr remained with the dogs. Despite the early hour 
the chief was at his desk. No time was lost by either 
man. A few but necessary words of advise regarding > 
provisions and the best course to take, and Macdonald 
found himself hitting the trail. All the men of the 
little post had gathered ’round to wish them Godspeed 
and give them as hearty a send-off as the bitter cold 
would allow. 

A crack of the whip over the excited dogs, a creak- 
ing of leather harness and they were off. The big 
white leader bounced and strained at his collar as if he 
alone had the whole task of drawing the load. On one 
side, whip in hand, strode Burr, dressed in regulation 
jacket, fur cap, gauntlets and leggins. He made a fine 
figure as he sped along with the easy lift and swing 
of the snowshoe, which only comes after years of prac- 
tice. To the left and rear was the sergeant, clad in 
the same dress, excepting that the fur trimming on his 
uniform was of otter in place of the coarser fur of his 
subordinate. 

On they sped, these two soldiers, representing the 
law of the great white queen on the roof of the world. 
For them there was no turning back ; straight ahead lay 
their duty and there they had to go. The warm 
breath congealing in the bitter cold on their collars 
made them appear huge, red-coated, white- faced gob- 
lins. No stop was made till nigh noon and then only 
for a short time to enable them to swallow a hasty bite 
and boil a pannikin of tea. 

They soon continued on their journey. All that 
angry warriors. 


8 4 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


afternoon the steady crunch, crunch of their shoes and 
the panting of the dogs were the only sounds which 
broke the silent whiteness which enveloped the world 
as far as the eye could see. That night they slept at 
one of the caches which Macdonald had built on one of 
his previous trips in this direction. Daylight saw them 
once more on the trail. No stop was made, not even 
for dinner, which they ate as they jogged along. 

A whole week went by and the ninth day found them 
according to their calculations fully three hundred 
miles from their post, and as yet no traces had been 
found of the fugitive Frenchman. No word was 
spoken as they covered the faint north trail, mile after 
mile ; each man busy with his own thoughts. Up to 
this time the weather had been clear and cold ; now in 
this late afternoon the sky was rapidly filling up with 
dark ominous looking clouds, which chased each other 
across the vision of the travelers. An unnatural, heavy 
feeling was in the air, which meant to the men that a 
big storm was at hand. The dogs, too, seemed to sense 
the danger. Throwing back their ears, they sniffed the 
air and broke into a frantic run. 

Macdonald, experienced as he was, felt a sinking at 
his heart as he anxiously scanned the threatening 
heavens. He had calculated upon reaching the next 
cache by five that day ; but they were still many miles 
distant from it and the storm might descend at any 
moment. 

Crack ! Crack ! went his whip, flicking pieces of fur 
from the back of the straining leader. Faster went the 
dogs, but faster came the storm and in less time than it 
takes to tell. It was upon them. The bitter north wind 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


85 


blew with fearful velocity, gathering up the snow in 
its mighty embrace and hurling it here and there as if 
the very heavens themselves had flung all the unchained 
furies upon the land. 

In vain they attempted to overturn the toboggan, so 
as to afford them some slight shelter,' but the winds, as 
if in devilish mockery of their puny efforts, caught it 
up and tumbled it over and over, scattering part of 
their precious provisions in the snow. 

Faint and weary and almost suffocated, Macdonald, 
realizing they were in the middle of a “Norther,” man- 
aged to shout, or rather gasp, in Burr’s ears, “Dig!” 
and at the same time motioned with his hands. Burr 
at once caught on and helped by the sergeant, dug 
feverishly with his hands in the soft blinding snow. In 
a short time a trench large enough to protect them was 
dug. Collecting as much of their belongings as possible 
and leaving the dogs to shift for themselves, they 
tumbled in, rolling themselves in their sleeping bags 
as they did so. 

Swiftly the dense clouds of snow covered them until 
the light, warm stuff was piled high above them. Dark- 
ness quickly fell and still the wind blew and the snow 
drifted. To the men cowering in their trench all things 
seemed at an end. They realized their possible fate, 
but neither thought of the return journey. If they suc- 
ceeded in weathering the storm, somehow or other they 
must pick up the trail again and strain on to their jour- 
ney’s end, which might mean Baptiste, or death, or both. 
Through the long hours of bitter cold they lay -covered 
with nature’s white blanket. 

Fiftv-five hours later Macdonald wearily dug his 


86 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


way clear of his snowy couch. A dismal scene met his 
bloodshot eyes ; away on all sides rolled endless miles 
of white covered wastes. Pure white in their awful 
yet beautiful majesty, not a breath of wind was there 
to remind him of the awful storm. As he rose weakly 
to his feet his benumbed brain gradually cleared and 
he became alive to the predicament in which they found 
themselves ; directly his strength returned. He dug 
hastily in the snow for the trooper. Soon a leg, then 
both arms appeared, and in a few minutes the sergeant 
dragged clear the blanket-enfolded form of his com- 
panion. A few minutes examination convinced him 
that his comrade was no more. Life no longer glowed 
in that stiffened body ; the brave, loyal heart was stilled 
forever. He had lain down and slowly drifted into 
that soft, sweet sleep which is the kindest gift the cruel 
north has to offer. 

Broken and almost discouraged, Macdonald sat 
limply on his snowshoes. Death had no terrors for 
him; but here he seemed to have reached the parting 
of the ways. Should he give up the chase and return, 
or should he obey the dictates of his conscience and 
duty and keep ahead? 

Long he sat thus engrossed in his thoughts till the 
rising wind nipped his fingers and ears and bade him 
move. With a heavy heart he rolled the body back 
into the trench which would now be his grave and 
covered it with snow. Then lashing his late com- 
rade’s snowshoes tail to head, he planted them in the 
snow at the head of the grave. Thus with his sleeping 
blanket as his winding sheet in the cold, cold snow was 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


87 


buried a noble man * humble, but brave, he saw naught 
but what his duty bade him. 

Nothing but a pair of snowshoes marked his lonely 
grave in that silent, unfriendly wilderness till the melt- 
ing snows perchance would reveal his red coated form 
to the eyes of the heavens. But roughly had he lived 
and no more would he ask than to be buried by some 
comrade’s hand. 

* * * * 

Macdonald was suddenly startled by low growls 
from the direction of the toboggan. At once his mind 
flew back to the dogs. Wading knee deep toward the 
sounds, he made the welcome discovery that in over- 
turning and landing on its edge, the toboggan had 
formed a fairly good shelter and crouched behind it 
were all nine dogs, apparently none the worse for their 
experience. Upon his approach they yelped and 
growled and jumped frantically at him with open 
mouths. Seizing the long walrus whips, he soon had 
them beaten into submission. Then unfastening the 
provisions from the back of the toboggan, where the 
greater part were still secure, he fed the famished 
dogs. Untangling the frozen harness was no mean 
job, even to an old hand ; at length it was done and the 
dogs stood or lay once more in line before the righted 
toboggan. Gathering up such articles as he could find, 
he was soon ready to push on. He raised his whip; 
but even as the cruel, stinging lash curled through the 
air, the awful truth burst upon him. His mind had 
been so occupied with different things he had failed to 
reckon with most fearful of all calamities which could 
befall him. The trail — where was the trail? Mock- 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


ingly the huge crests of snow flung the unanswered 
question back at him. Serenely the vast white silent 
places stretched out before his eyes into nothingness, 
indifferent to all his peril and questionings. 

Truly he was in a desperate position. His compass 
was lost, the storm had changed the face of the whole 
country, and the trail, faint before, was now covered 
many inches deep. Unable to make up his mind which 
direction to take he shook up the dogs, cracked his 
whip and decided to go wherever they led. 

Slowly the now cowed brutes struggled belly deep 
in the soft yielding snow. Without a backward look 
Macdonald plodded in the rear of the slowly moving 
train, his chin on his breast. All that day and the next 
they floundered till near noon, when one of the small- 
est of the dogs- sank down utterly exhausted. The ser- 
geant saw it was time to call a halt if he wished to save 
his team for the unknown dangers which lay ahead. 
Unharnessing the poor brute, he laid it on the tobog- 
gan. Lighting a fire, after some difficulty, he cooked 
his lonely meal. Next he filled the ever hitngry dogs, 
limiting the quantity, as he well knew hungry dogs 
travel best. 

The exhausted husky it was apparent would be of 
no further use, so the sergeant dispatched the poor 
creature to save weight. Through the long hours they 
slowly journeyed in the great stillness. The next day 
and the next and the next found them still making slow 
progress in a crazy, zig-zag fashion. 

Macdonald broke trail continually now, the dogs 
following the feebly beaten track. Fresh snow had 
fallen nearly every day, so not once did they have a 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


crust upon which they might have traveled in com- 
parative comfort. 

With hanging tongues and bloodshot eyes the brave 
dogs struggled gamely on. Their ranks were sadly 
thinned now ; only four remained. No longer did the 
leader bounce and strain at his collar ; wearily he led 
the team, listless and weak. The weaker dogs, as they 
fell, were cut away, Macdonald not having the 
strength to unbuckle the frozen buckles. As he lurched 
on his weary way he realized that when he had visited 
the north before he had merely touched the fringe of 
her huge garment. 

*To his tired brain came strange fancies ; from the 
beginning of time had he been tramping, tramping and 
for all time through all eternity must he brave the 
snows. Gradually his mind was giving way under the 
dreadful monotony. His shoes seemed to grow heavier 
at every step. To his fevered brain each shoe weighed 
hundreds of pounds. Fantastic ideas played upon his 
mind; shadows beckoned to him, urged him on; his 
brain was on fire and the fearful pain in his now sight- 
less eyes seemed boring into his very soul. 

“MaL-de-racquette” cramped his feet and almost 
brought a cry of pain to his cracked lips. Blindly he 
staggered on, his trail stretching out behind him like 
the path of a drunken man. Slowly, but surely, the 
inevitable lethargy was creeping over his limbs. Why 
fight and struggle when one could simply lie down and 
sleep? Solemnly the soft white arms of the north 
closed about him ; sweet dreaming music filled the air 
and he sank slowly to the snow. 


90 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


PART II. 

Coming into camp with money in his pocket, though 
where he had obtained it none knew, Baptiste Blais 
called at every bar and drank till they refused to give 
him more. Staggering drunk his brain was on fire with 
the bad whiskey of the camp. He neither knew nor 
cared what he did. Obeying the sudden natural im- 
pulses of his half savage nature, he stumbled into a 
cabin and stabbed the protesting occupant to the heart. 

Apparently somewhat sobered by his act, his thoughts 
turned at once to flight. Hitching the murdered man’s 
dogs, which were famous the camp over, he hastily 
threw on some necessary provisions and the victim’s 
rifle, not forgetting a huge “flacon de whisky blanc,” 
which he found in the bunk, and struck the trail. For 
days he traveled at the steady and unswerving pace 
which is typical of the northerner. Not for one hour 
was Baptiste in his proper senses. Every few miles he 
would take a sip of the horrible stuff. Finally he flung 
the bottle away with a glutteral curse. That night he 
cursed and raved for more whiskey. Towards morn- 
ing he slipped into an unnatural and troubled sleep, in 
which red-coated policemen surrounded him on all 
sides. They poured along from every direction ; came 
at him with terrible swiftness; tall men, short men, in- 
spectors, sergeants and troopers, all with fingers pointed 
at him. 

In the crowd Baptiste recognized the faces of many ; 
he had good reason to do so. Looming head and shoul- 
ders above the rest towered the figure of Sergeant Mac- 
donald. Something in the sergeant’s face held him ; 
then drew him on till the officer put out his gauntleted 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


9i 


hand with the fateful words: “In the name of the 
King” on his lips ; when he awoke with a cry of fear. 

Slowly his senses came back to him and he realized it 
was all a dream. Try as he would he could not all that 
day remove from his thoughts the memory of the stern- 
faced sergeant of police. Gradually, as the utter silence 
worked upon his drink-befogged brain, he became ob- 
cessed with the idea that he was being followed. Ever 
was he looking over his shoulder to catch sight of his 
pursuers. He feared even the creak of his own shoes. 
At times his reason deserted him and he would furi- 
ously lash the dogs and force the wearied brutes into a 
run till they would stop exhausted with rolling eyes 
and heaving flanks ; then Baptiste would throw himself 
full length on the toboggan, weak and unsteady, both in 
mind and body. Thus for many days he traveled, spar- 
ing neither the dogs nor himself. 

When the fearful, death-dealing blizzard which had 
overtaken the policemen swept across the plain, Bap- 
tiste afforded in his weakened condition an apparently 
helpless victim to the clutches of the storm. But, 
strangs, to say, the abatement of the storm saw him 
still making his painful way in the deep snow. Some- 
how, by the strange workings of Providence, he had 
weathered the most fearful “norther” in the history of 
the terrible North. 

Not unscathed had he emerged, however. The fin- 
gers of his left hand were useless, frozen white. His 
face was cracked and blackened and icicles hung from 
eye lashes and beard. 

Painfully he raised one foot after the other. A piti- 
ful wreck of a man he was, as he tramped by the side 


92 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


of the sadly depleted team. For two more days he 
^g‘cd n, b co ning weaker and weaker, ever pos- 
sessed with the horrible fear of the red coats, till at last, 
in the afternoon of the third day proceeding the storm, 
he sank to the toboggan unable to move another step. 

Gratefully the wornout dogs lay down and licked 
their cracked and swollen paws. As Mother Night 
drew her mantle of darkness over the white bed of the 
world, Baptiste struggled to his knees and succeeded in 
building a small fire, over which he warmed himself 
and cooked a meagre supper. Soon he covered himself 
with his blankets and dropped into a troubled sleep. 
Far into the next morning he lay muffled over the head 
till the bright, glowing light of the sun awoke him. 
Starting upright, Baptiste mechanically scanned the 
distant line where snowy plain met the blue boult of 
the heavens. 

No! It could not be! Again he looked; did his 
eyes deceive him? Or was it merely one of the shadowy 
figures which lately had seemed ever present. No! 
Slowly the truth dawned upon him. Here at last was 
what he had long dreaded. Nearer crept the dots on 
the horizon, ever increasing in size, until the French- 
man distinguished the dirty, fur-fringed red coat, the 
tall cop and outfit of a policeman. What little cour- 
age he had Baptiste felt oozing out of his boots at the 
sight of the officer. There was no use in resisting. 
He might as well surrender himself to fate and the law. 

As the distance between the two men lessened Bap- 
tiste was somehow not surprised to recognize the face 
and form of the man of his dreams. Nearer he came 
and the waiting Frenchman could see the weary hunch 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


93 


of the shoulder and the hopeless-looking face of a man 
broken by the hand of the wild North. He was almost 
within ten yards of Baptiste now, and to the French- 
man’s surprise he made no motion, nor in any way 
showed that he was aware of the presence of another 
man. Straight ahead he slowly limped and he had 
passed Baptiste quite a few yards before the dumb- 
founded Frenchman could collect his wits. Then his 
senses awoke and he knew at once the reason of the 
seeming indifference. Macdonald was snowblind. As 
the knowledge of the man’s condition forced itself upon 
Baptiste, he stood face to face with a great temptation. 
Would he raise his rifle and end the chase there and 
then. Why shouldn’t he? The government never gave 
him anything, excepting jail, so why should he spare the 
bloodhound of the government ? But on the other hand 
he knew enough of the police to know that he might 
escape for a while, but caught he would be sooner or 
later. 

Lowering his half uplifted rifle, he shifted it to his 
crippled hand and raised his right hand to his mouth 
of a hail ; even as he did so, the limping figure paused/ 
threw up its hands and slowly sank to the snow. The 
surprised Frenchman made his way to the fallen man 
and after some difficulty, because of his own weakened 
condition, succeeded in raising him to the toboggan and 
covering him with blankets. Not having brandy, he 
simply chafed the hands and feet' of the unconscious 
man ; then building a fire, he made some tea, pouring it 
down Macdonald’s throat. Its warmth did him good 
and he slowly opened his inflamed eyes. No light of 
reason was there, however, and he raved and sang 


94 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


a weak, crazy fashion. For many days Macdonald lay 
delirious for the greater part of the time. Only the 
careful ministrations of the Frenchman kept the small 
spark of life alive in the frail wornout body. At length 
there came a day when the Sergeant awoke in his 
proper reason. Slowly the different events of the fear- 
ful journey came back to him. He hadn’t the faintest 
idea where he was ; all he could see from his couch 
where he lay were the hide walls and roof of a hastily 
constructed “lean-to.” He dozed for a while and when 
next he opened his eyes there stood or rather knelt be- 
fore him in the low shelter, a short, dark Frenchman. 
Instantly the sergeant knew him as the man he was 
after. His natural impulse was to put his hand to his 
belt for his revolver, but his weakness forced a groan 
from him. Baptiste, reading his thoughts burst into a 
low laugh. 

“Now, sergeant, you lie still; you not strong; you 
wait.” 

“Where am I ? How did I get here ?” burst from the 
lips of the policeman. 

Slowly in his twisted patois Baptiste told him of how 
he found him, snowblind and unconscious on the plain ; 
how he picked him up and nursed him through many 
days of fever; how he had pitched camp on the spot, 
afraid to travel in his weakness. 

“Why did you do this? You knew I was after you?” 

“Ah ! La Bonne St. Anne told me in my heart to help 
you, Voila!” and he dismissed the question with a 
shrug of his shoulders. 

Camp was broken a few days later. The Frenchman 
tumbled Macdonald into the one toboggan and they set 


NORTHLAND STORIES 


95 


off on the return journey. With rested dogs good time 
was made for over a week. But on the seventh day 
the sky became dark and overcast and, with all the sud- 
denness of a northern storm, a blizzard overtook them. 
With the feeble help of the policeman, Baptiste man- 
aged to form a fair shelter with the toboggan and skins. 
Behind this they crouched. Two days went by and 
their condition was becoming serious. The storm did 
not show signs of abating and the cold was intense. 

Unable to withstand the fearful, soul-piercing cold, 
Macdonald was growing weaker, and despite the piling 
of all the blankets and fur§ that could be spared around 
him, he could not keep warm. 

On the morning of the third day, what Baptiste had 
long tried to prevent had overtaken the sergeant. In 
the cold and darkness of the storm Macdonald had 
fallen into the soft arms of sleep and from sleep death 
had claimed him for her own. Stoically, Baptiste pulled 
a blanket over the face of the dead man and threw him- 
self over the body. 

Silently the everfalling snow piled itself above the 
spot and once again the cruel North had claimed her 
own. 


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